Violet Cove

Copyright © 2009 by Sherrie Tellier.

Book design by author

First Edition

Includes bibliographical index

Library of Congress Control Number: 2008909430

ISBN: Hardcover 978-1-4363-7945-8

Softcover 978-1-4363-7944-1

ISBN:     ebk     978-1-4628-4258-2

1. Suspense. 2. Drama. 3. Fiction.

4. Ghosts. 5. Oregon. 6. Haunted Places.

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This is a work of fiction. Excepting reference to historic figures: characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.

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Contents

Prologue

Diary

Agnes Flanagan

Boyd Witherspoon

Letter

Neil Eckers

1   

2   

3   

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

37

38

39

40

41

Acknowledgements

Bibliography

Bibliography

About the Font

For my sister

with love

Violet Cove

In thoughts from the visions of the night, when deep sleep falleth on men.

Fear came upon me, and trembling, which made all my bones shake.

Then a spirit passed before my face; the hair of my flesh stood up.

Job 4:13-15

Prologue

A ghost is defined as the apparition of a deceased individual appearing whole, transparent, or even elusive. Residual energy that may affect inanimate objects, often associated with places the decedent frequented in life, former lodgings, or the area where they died. Such places are said to be haunted.

In the quiet seaside town of Violet Cove, on the southern coast of Oregon, there exists such a place. A house where sinister and depressive ghosts of bygone tenants still wander the corridors at night and have been seen in daylight peering silently from windows. Forever haunting an old Victorian mansion, they either cannot or simply refuse to leave.

When told the stories, it’s only natural to want to see the house. Many have traveled to this location with skepticism, hoping to debunk the rumors by explaining them away scientifically. So far, no one’s been able to do that, but some returned, saying they too experienced a haunting.

Suffice to say, the house has endured a steady history of misfortune. Numerous deaths occurred there, including suicide and homicide, some so intricate as to leave physical traces on the wood itself.

It would be arduous to recount the events exactly as they occurred; not everything has been documented. There are inferences that must be made, but the following pages should enlighten the reader upon the history of some of its more formidable tenants. That is, the ones who remain…

Then

Death be not proud, though some have called thee

Mighty and dreadful, for, thou art not so.

John Donne

Holy Sonnets (1633)

Divine Meditation 6/X, L1-2

Diary

Another day of sweltering heat. The kids are down at the creek, trying to stay cool and have some fun too.

Interviewed two qualified applicants for the position of schoolmistress. The youngest has just celebrated her eighteenth year. I know her folks, and they’re good people. Although both women seem equally bright and enthusiastic, I’m leaning toward the older one. Her name is Agnes Flanagan. She’s twenty-five years old and of Irish descent with crimson locks that live up to the meaning of her surname. The poor thing has no kith and kin about. I had the impression she was desperate for work.

John has just brought me a lovely bouquet of mountain daisies and purple lupines. It’s been decided. We will employ Ms. Flanagan as John indicates he took notice of her and thinks she will make a fine teacher for our children.

Elizabeth Austin

July 31, 1911

Agnes Flanagan

A festive autumn parade took place in the coastal town of Violet Cove on the afternoon of All Saints Day 1911. The fish fry and fountain sodas were a success at the Ladies Auxiliary cookout. The kids had a hoot, and so did the band; choruses of laughter and music filled the salty air with energy.

In the evening, all five of the Austin children, from tallest to smallest, waved a stair-stepped goodbye to their parents as they left to attend the annual ball at the Odd Fellows’ lodge.

Ms. Flanagan spent the evening at home with the children, tutoring them in the mystical art of the occult. She drew imaginary horoscopes for each child, using letters and numbers according to their name and age. These she bundled into a reading that spelled out their wealth, health, and destiny for the coming year. She slipped in the occasional misfortune to make the game seem more realistic, and by morning, their luck seemed evident.

The children awoke to the joyful news that there would be no school on Wednesday. They hurriedly set off toward the creek for a day of fishing and wildflower picking.

A little after eleven, disappointment set in. A donkey cart pulled up the long dusty lane, and a prim Victorian woman emerged. It was Mrs. Austin, carrying supplies from town and hauling the children home in the back of the wagon.

John? she called. I’m home.

A ruffled man emerged from the study with beads of sweat on his thick brows. His dressing shirt, its buttons askew, hung sloppily outside his trousers.

Did you know Ms. Flanagan’s given the children another day off? I found them playing down by the bridge, she said.

Oh, he grunted.

"She claims there’s a rat in the schoolhouse. Excuses, John, that’s all I get from her! But our children need a decent and consistent education. We are paying her to provide that, you know. Oh, I really don’t know what we’re going to do about her. She sighed. On the off chance that there really is a rat, I did pick up some poison while I was in town. You’d never believe how difficult it is to buy prussic acid these days. Mr. Tate was most obliging to sell it to me, but then I did mend his daughters’ dresses last month," Elizabeth said, winded, as she set her heavy load on the kitchen countertop.

John simply turned and went back to his study while his wife opened the prussic acid, sprinkled it into a saucer of buttermilk, and went to check on the kids.

Likewise, Ms. Flanagan had dressed in a frenzied manner. She was still buttoning her blouse when she crept quietly over to eavesdrop. The only rat here is Mrs. Austin, she thought.

While Mrs. Austin was outside getting the children to settle down for a day of lessons to be held on the porch, Ms. Flanagan was in the kitchen concocting a poison-laden beverage of her own. She left the steaming cup of tea on the countertop next to the buttermilk and scurried away.

In the end, Mrs. Austin took that tea to her husband and carried the buttermilk out to the schoolhouse while Ms. Flanagan tutored the children on the front porch. By the time lunch was served, John had been dead for nearly an hour. Surprisingly, Mrs. Austin didn’t attend her husband’s funeral; she went to jail instead.

The claims were incredible, and courtroom drama ensued. The defense contended that it was an accident; Mrs. Austin had no memory of pouring that tea although she assumed she must have. Her denial at the inquisition that an affair was taking place was all the worse because half of the town knew about it.

Although Mrs. Austin did not take the stand in her defense, her fate was sealed the moment Mr. Tate and Ms. Flanagan gave their testimonies. The prosecution showed it was willful premeditated murder. Perhaps, it was the outcome of the trial itself that was premeditated. Throughout the proceedings, the gallows were erected for all to see.

In a town where snow is more shocking than murder, winter is defined as the rainy season, and the rains inevitably came. There was thunder and lightning, the thrashing cacophony of a violent storm, when at last the verdict was read. The convicted prisoner was led away in anticipation of the sentence to be carried out.

On a bleak January morning in 1912, a dark canopy of umbrellas filled the public square. The townspeople braved pneumonia for morbid curiosity to witness the hanging. A doomed Elizabeth Austin, dirty and ragged from her ordeal thus far, was led onto a platform above the raucous crowd. Amid great swells of heckling and the occasional projectile, she took her place over the trapdoor.

The crowd grew silent, sensing the dramatic end was near; the warden asked, Does the prisoner have any last words?

Only for my children whom I love so much, please be kind to them, she said.

Then a beige woven gunnysack covered her head, and twine bound her wrists and ankles. Beneath her drab gray prisoner’s garb with black-stenciled lettering, she wore a humiliating diaper held by oversized safety pins. It was not for her discomfort however, bearing in mind the bodily fluids that flow freely upon death.

Death by hanging is strangulation by another word. Instantaneous if the neck should break, but Elizabeth’s neck did not break. She struggled to free herself, to breathe the air of the earth, but it was clearly the end.

Dead and interred, her body lies in the prisoners’ section of the old Pioneer Cemetery. A desolate forgotten grave, neglected and windswept, once adorned with flowers planted by the few who thought her innocent or justified.

From the time of her arrest, the Austin children lived with their father’s family. At first, it seemed the children would be happy there, but time proved differently. Their paternal relatives spoke harshly of Elizabeth and resented the two girls who were the living image of their mother.

Their cousins were the very worst of all. They especially enjoyed embellishing the cruelty of the execution by making up sordid details. Eventually, the children sought help from the attorney who had defended their mother.

Despite the outcome of his previous endeavor, Mr. Hooper was successful in having the children sent down to Brookings to live with his barren aunt, Ms. Ida Holloway, a widowed purveyor of fine handcrafted soaps. She relished the thought of having children and doted graciously upon them, especially after they saved her life, dousing her when she inadvertently set herself afire.

Mr. Hooper would’ve taken the children himself had he not been in poor health, having contracted tuberculosis in his adolescence. He never married nor ever truly reached financial stability, though his aunt Ida wasn’t ideal either. To his credit, Mr. Hooper was, at all times, kind and considerate.

He promised the children he would write on their behalf to their maternal relatives abroad, but the letters went continually unanswered. In time, he became a sort of surrogate father to the children—a big brother at least. He died a few years later in the spring of 1915, attesting with his final breath his belief that Mrs. Austin was innocent.

While the extended Austin clan was resolute in the findings of the court, the townspeople were divided on it. Regardless, it seemed they could all agree that blame lay scattered. The entire community ostracized Ms. Flanagan. They believed it was her immoral association with Mr. Austin that caused Mrs. Austin to kill her husband in a fit of jealous rage.

The seductress, hoping to find a new life elsewhere, attempted to flee; but she was caught before the train ever left the station and promptly thrown off. She had no money, no place to call home, and employment opportunities in Violet Cove were not extended to her. Ultimately, she had no choice but to take to the bush. On cold, stormy nights, she managed to get herself arrested for prostitution or vagrancy; but by morning, she’d be back to her hermitage.

Without a remorseful thought, her lurid self-pity led her back to the boarded empty schoolhouse just a few years later. She found the old hiding spot easily enough and took a sprinkle of the prussic acid, reconcealed the bottle, and carried the deadly powder in her weathered hand toward the cemetery located on the grounds of the estate.

She self-administered the dose and managed to fall face-first on the soil where she thought John Austin was buried. It was difficult to tell because his grave was never adorned with a permanent marker, and the rough wooden-cross had succumbed to the elements long ago. An unforgivable reality given the substantial payment his family received from the sale of the house. The money, they claimed, was owed to their mill for goods and services. Not even the children received a share.

When Ms. Flanagan’s death was discovered, what remained of her corpse was scheduled for interment at the Pioneer Cemetery. She was to be buried there as a pauper. But the new owner of the estate, a silent-film star who discovered her body, insisted on holding services for her and burying her where she lay. The city readily issued a permit.

A stonemason prepared a surprisingly small plaque bearing Agnes Flanagan’s inscription. He intentionally omitted the epitaph that Mr. Witherspoon requested and brought the thirteen-inch marker to his doorstep where it was received with praise and gratitude nonetheless. After serious contemplation of the inventory on hand, the owner of the funeral parlor decided he had only one coffin of insignificant quality in which to bury the poor woman.

Just when it looked like plans were coming together, despite reluctance, the gravedigger, a city employee, sent word that he was ill, so Mr. Witherspoon’s servants had to do the work.

It’s supposed to be six feet, Elsie said.

If you want to keep digging, that’s fine with me, but I’m beat! The butler wiped his brow and adamantly set aside his shovel.

Three feet it is, the maid agreed.

From the desk of

Boyd Witherspoon

Found a diary today. I believe Mrs. Austin was innocent. Poor woman.

The evil lingers and saturates the wood. I’ve a good notion to disinter the remains and say, Go away, Ms. Flanagan, you’re no longer welcome! I feel as though I should tell someone. I nearly showed the diary to Netti. Good thing, she might’ve collapsed if I had. Her late husband was on the jury. She tells me the Austin boys died in the war, but the girls might still be down in Brookings, probably married by now.

I lie in a morose state and have fitful dreams. A horrible cackling sound that stalks me at night and pervades my waking thoughts. I need a turn-up, a change of pace, but fear I am so heavily vested in this place. When I think of what they did to her, it makes me sick. At least she went quickly, unlike myself, dying a sad slow death at the hands of loan sharks. I think of ending it myself.

Gertie’s coming down for the weekend and insists on driving. She drives like a madwoman always, and I’m sorely tempted to hide her keys when she arrives. I’m looking forward to seeing her, though I daresay she’ll be disappointed that I sold the yacht.

B. D. Witherspoon

July 31, 1930

Boyd Witherspoon

It was New Year’s Eve 1930. The number of exceedingly high-maintenance celebrities increased over the preceding days. They stayed at the house on Mt. Jotnar and filled the Pelican Lodge at Smuggler’s Cove with incessant bell ringing and assorted drama that caused weary staff members to resort to aspirin.

Prohibition was in full force, and law enforcement had been told to be on the lookout. In Violet Cove, home of what the bootleggers termed Smuggler’s Cove, it meant overtime. The rewards were great for those willing to grease the palms of the corrupt officials who were inclined to turn a blind eye. Most of the guests brought signed photographs, hoping they could be so lucky as to get off for less.

The men in their fashion looked smart and dapper for the occasion. They wore stylish tuxedos of firmly woven worsted wool with long fitted jackets, polished shoes, and wavy, slicked-back hair. The vamps donned layer upon layer of frill and fringe, adorned with long beaded ropes. Most had slept upright with bed caps to maintain their meticulous coiffures and simply applied fresh makeup atop the old.

There was a catered dinner at the house, followed by fox trots and poker in the smoking lounge. A few of the guests complained about the turpentine, but most enjoyed the alcohol. Glasses were raised, and toasts were made. Each fellow tried to outdo the one before, but all were grateful to the host. Bows gave his guests a spectacular fireworks show in the air and on the ground as egos collided and sarcasm ensued. Somehow, he managed to smile as he watched the very last of his money go up in smoke and colorful shades of bursting lights.

When Auld Lang Syne began, and Hollywood’s finest banded in song, even the director couldn’t help feeling that he was among some talent. Then rainbows of stringy tissue paper and gold confetti rained down passionately in the parlor, eventually sticking to the shoes that trailed out the door as the guests dispersed in playful hats and lip-stained cheeks.

A few stayed on while others weaved and staggered back to the lodge. Those who remained at the house awoke to a terrible scene and a curt note from their melancholy host. They spent an hour cleaning up the evidence of all the drinking that had gone on and then rang for the sheriff. But before he arrived, they had an epiphany—a sort of intoxicated residual—and decided to hide the suicidal scrawl. It offered no explanation anyway for the question on everyone’s mind.

They did this! Merrick Marston asserted. I say we let them wonder about it.

No point in giving ’em the satisfaction of knowing they killed him, eh? Michael Angelo agreed. These were their stage names, of course. But even the director, Chas Ulwood, agreed they had legs in this plan.

I’m just glad Gertie isn’t here to see this, Eva Lang said, shaking her head. But this sparked another conversation entirely—one of imagination and dread. In the fullest of time, it was all they had. No one knew whether Bows had anything to do with Gertie’s strange disappearance.

Bows knew. He got his answers from the ghost of Agnes Flanagan. While his guests were in the house debating his involvement, he was halfway down the mountain, staring helplessly at Gertie’s decomposed body. The missing actress was slumped over the wheel of her pale yellow Buick roadster.

Ms. Flanagan’s explanation was straightforward. The woman had skidded off the road trying to negotiate a curve, and Bows could clearly see why no one found her. It seemed likely they never would. Neither the road nor sky was visible behind the thick cover of trees and constant forest, not to mention all the leaves and branches that had fallen onto Gertie’s car.

All this time, Bows thought sadly, she was so nearby.

Surprised that he could still shed a tear, he blinked and looked away from Ms. Flanagan. He thanked her for showing him Gertie’s body and asked if he might see her spirit as well since he and Ms. Flanagan obviously remained. That is to say, they remained within a translucent ectoplasm of their former self, with consciousness and a heavy feeling of isolation and despair.

I don’t know where she’s gone, Ms. Flanagan said, adjusting her spectacles and appearing aloof. I only know she isn’t here. And neither is my beloved John Austin.

The woman shrugged her shoulders and abruptly departed by floating away. She disappeared into the morning fog as Bows remained in lethargic form and sulky mood.

What Ms. Flanagan neglected to mention was that Gertie had picked up a hitchhiker at the base of the mountain—a bespectacled Gibson girl—and soon realized her passenger was a ghost!

From the desk of

Boyd Witherspoon

New Year’s Day 1931

To Father McReynolds,

Forgive me, Father, for all the sins

I’ve made and intend to commit.

Boyd Downy Witherspoon

To my family,

You have my profoundest apologies and deepest love.

Forever,

Boyd

To my friends,

We had a wonderful time.

Until we meet again.

Best Wishes,

Bows

To my fans,

I shall miss you all.

B. D. Witherspoon

To my financiers,

You’re all a bunch of bloodsucking scoundrels.

My life is all that remains, and I’ll be damned if

I’m giving that to you as well. Go to hell!

Boyd D. Witherspoon

To my heirs,

Every wheat penny I had went into this house.

Take care of it, or I daresay, I’ll be seeing you!

Signed: A permanent resident

Letter

July 31, 1988

Dad,

I put this letter here so only you would find it. I’m sorry for putting you through this. I want you to know that I love you and Mom. Please let her know that I never meant to cause her any pain. I know you’ll take care of my boy, but, Dad, there’s something I need you to do.

Do you remember that spot where we were when you told me the story about the Indians that slew the giant, and we talked about David and Goliath? I hope you do because I need you to take a shovel there and dig. I don’t know where it came from. Melanie went out blackberry picking yesterday, only she came back with a suitcase instead. I asked her about it, but she lied. I looked everywhere for it last night, and when I found it, I hid it. I was going to make her tell me all about it, but this morning she said, she just woke up and decided she didn’t want to be part of this family anymore. She was taking Nate too. I couldn’t let her do that. Afterward, I realized I’d never get away with it. Ilsa’s gone. She ran out the backdoor with Nate. I tried to stop her.

I can hear the sirens coming. Melanie said it was in an old Buick—skeleton, no ID—don’t look for it. Atwater saw her carrying the suitcase, so be careful. See that Nate gets a decent chance in life. I have to go now.

Your loving son,

Neil

Neil Eckers

A private double funeral was held on the grounds of the Eckers’ estate on August 3, 1988. Dr. Williams and Sheriff Tate, along with a few friends and relatives, witnessed the burial.

The services were short and succinct. The minister had some harsh words to say about a man who commits "the greatest sin of all." He talked about cowardice and judgment, how forgiveness wasn’t theirs to grant but that a higher authority would judge these sins with severity. Of Melanie Eckers, only kind, loving, and gracious words were uttered.

Guilt, a perpetual conflict of guilt, and all the what-ifs drove Neil’s mother clinically insane. Florence Eckers reached a point where she could no longer stand to be inside the house and swore she had seen a ghost standing at the foot of her bed, trying desperately to hand her a dead blackbird. Dr. Williams suggested to her husband that he find a psychiatrist at once because the woman obviously needed help. When he suggested that young Nate would benefit from therapy as well and described him as the gloomiest child, the grandfather replied, What’s he got to be happy about?

No one understood why Neil Eckers shot Melanie and then killed himself—least of all his father. That is, until he withdrew a dusty old book from his bookshelf twelve years later.

The book was opened on a Wednesday. December 13, 2000, to be precise. John Eckers had returned from San Francisco, a trip he made monthly but would make no more.

While he was driving home from his wife’s funeral, he took notice of little but the vast darkness. There was a lone star in the charcoal sky, a moonless nightfall that implied the darkness hadn’t really left that morning but was intent on lingering. It had descended like a black mourning veil after scarcely seven hours of sunlight unmasked. It reminded him of the poem A Nocturnal Upon St. Lucy’s Day penned by John Donne, a contemporary of Shakespeare but whose broad spectrum of human emotions ran melancholy at times to the point of exceeding even that of Edgar Allan Poe’s. Donne’s timeless prose was evident to other writers, like Ernest Hemingway and his use of Donne’s foreboding line, Never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee, though Dr. John Eckers, Ph.D. could only admire these men. The books he wrote were of an academic nature: Engineering Science, The Synergy of Machinery, and other such learned turning leafs.

It had been a long time since John had read Donne; and though he would have opened the book to its index, he was surprised to see a folded letter, peeking from the top of its worn and fragile tea-stained pages. He looked to see what this note marked: A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning. He read the sonnet and then read the letter.

The night was long, for it came without sleep. He read and reread the letter, giving it serious thought. That the batteries in his flashlight didn’t work was of minute disappointment. The old man hadn’t the slightest idea where to begin digging.

The story of the giant, he thought. I seem to recall the myth. I probably did tell it to Neil, but when . . . and where?

In the years that remained of his health, his vigor was spent traipsing across the perimeter of his estate, taking short reprieves out of necessity, and later resuming where he’d left off until he had set foot on nearly one-quarter of his vast estate.

John often coaxed his housekeeper into joining him—under the pretext of mushrooming like two little pigs. Any oblivious companion would do, just to keep him company and help him if he should fall and tumble down to the creek and end up in the ocean. He scoured the land for even just a shred of indication that something was buried there. Of course, the only place he was certain anything had been buried was the private cemetery near the creek. He found himself there on many occasions, standing before his son’s monument, staring at the cross, and praying the memory would surface. But it never did.

In the end, Dr. Eckers made a point to tell his grandson a variation of this tall tale. His delay made for the worst of timing, like the discovery of the letter. It came as Nate had reached that disagreeable stage of adolescence, bordering on manhood and achieving only arrogance.

Nate had recently declared himself Independent, but his definition of independence seemed to cost his grandfather a great deal of money. So when Nate agreed to come up to the house for dinner, forgoing his bare-shelved apartment, he brought his laundry too. John was pleased as this meant the young man would be staying for hours.

Did I ever tell you the story about the giant? he began.

No, because I probably didn’t care to hear it then, and I sure don’t want to now. Nate shoveled another bite into his mouth and thus devoured his crab cake.

I want to tell you, so please listen, Grandpa urged.

Is it something you wrote? Nate asked.

No, it’s an Indian legend, Grandpa said.

What’s that got to do with me? The question was of no revelation: Nate often reduced the size of the world to a single inhabitant.

Would you stop asking questions and listen?

Whatever.

"Jotnar, Grandpa explained, is an old Norse word for a race of giants, warring and feared. It is from this legend, of one such here, that the mountain received its name long ago by ancestors of the Woden clan."

I learned this in school. The Tututni were an Athapascan-speaking people. Their tribe stretched across the southern coast of Oregon. Vancouver was one of the first Europeans to come in contact with them. In 1792, he described them as peaceable people. Understandably that wasn’t the case when Sheridan came and took their land, Nate said.

You’re not listening, and trust me, you didn’t learn this in school. Grandpa’s patience waned, and he was sorely tempted to write Nate a letter instead, perhaps even hide it in some book the young man wouldn’t open for a dozen years.

I’m listening! The Vikings christened the mountain you live on. I got it, Nate contended.

Grandpa shook his head. "You know, one day this’ll all be yours," he said, pointing toward the kitchen.

Yeah, well, I’ll probably just burn it to the ground.

Nate stood, took his empty plate back for seconds while John rose dolefully and left the table. Nate’s words had affected him more than Nate could’ve realized at the time. John went to his study and closed the door.

When it sounded as though Nate’s laundry was done and he was preparing to leave, John thought of his son, Neil, and reminded himself why he was doing this.

As John walked his grandson out to his car, he tried again. In Violet Cove, especially here on Mt. Jotnar, legend tells of a giant, troll-like man who once roamed these hills. He may even have stood where you are standing now. No one can say whether he had a name or if he was even a bad person, but the Indians feared him and killed him in the night. But it’s been said, Grandpa added, that he was only trying to protect his gold. It’s buried here still.

There’s no such thing as trolls, Nate replied.

John watched as Nate’s car disappeared down the driveway, spewing dust and smoke. He could still hear its stereo blaring as the car descended the mountain.

Damned impertinence! With a shake of his head, Dr. Eckers marched back into his house and phoned his attorney. Although it was late and he had to call him at home, he reached him easily enough. It was the conversation that was difficult.

Now

You are leading me on

To the spots we knew when we haunted here together.

Thomas Hardy

After a Journey: L17-18

1   

When a man is battling a midlife crisis, sword raised against the unseen beast—or even in vast denial of the event with mental integuments shielding his perceived youth—he can usually be found behind the wheel of a sporty automobile. The latter was especially true of Robert Ford, bright eyed and cheerful, enjoying his new Audi up to no end.

The car had performed well on the treacherous pass and was now hugging the turns along the coast. Charging now as the morning fog steadily rose and the view grew larger and more splendid with each winding turn.

Anna, in the passenger seat, looked determined to restrict her gaze to the sky, away from the hypnotic throws of the tide that so baited her. If she didn’t, she might stare at