Crooked Crossroads (Child Lost Series Book 1)

by Trinity Crow

  ***

  Emotional attachments might be the road to hell, but sleeping in a real bed instead of on the floor was a point to the opposition. I felt zero resentment or guilt as I snuggled in with a book four of Kate L. Mary's Broken World series and a bag of Zapp's Crawtators I had found in one of the boxes of groceries Mr. D had left. The sheer comfort had my eyes sliding shut in minutes. I gave in and shut the book, reaching up to click the lamp off.

  What was it that made you wide awake once you gave in and turned out the lights? Suddenly, I wasn't the least bit sleepy and my mind was turning over all kinds of stuff that was better suited to daylight rationality. What the hell had happened to Julia? Was it an illness, an accident or something more violent? Was she okay with Corky and me hanging out? I didn't really buy the whole life after death thing, but since I'd never been dead, it was probably smarter to hedge my bets and not piss anyone off. Besides, denying ghosts existed was pretty idiotic with Corky dancing around as exhibit A.

  My thoughts were heading towards darker, more dangerous places when I noticed the apartment wasn't. Dark, I mean. There was too much light. I sighed, tossing back the covers. The bathroom light was still on.

  The wood floors were cool under my bare feet as I slipped down the hall to the bathroom. My eyes flicked across the lock on the downstairs door, double checking it was bolted. All good. There was some fumbling around as I tried to find the switch on the bathroom wall without going in. It was totally cliche of me, but suddenly I did not want to look in the mirror. It was something about the dark and being alone in a house after dark. All those movies where the person looks up and they see someone standing behind them? I can't remember a single one where it was a friendly visit. Never once was it a fairy godmother or the Publisher's Clearing House guys with a giant check.

  My hand caught the switch and clicked it off before I was ready and the house went dark around me. I stood there, letting my eyes adjust. The walk back to my bed was going to seem a lot longer. I took that first step and then another, telling myself not to give in and run.

  Nothing here. All doors locked. No music, no perfume. Stupid, stupid.

  Why insulting myself gave me a backbone, I don't know, but it worked. The tension drained out of me. The hall was easy to see with the light from the windows now that my vision had cleared. I headed back to bed, my new mattress calling me. As I passed the stair door, I hesitated just a second, catching the faintest whisper of sound.

  I don’t think of myself as a spooky person. I mean, easily spooked. I can watch scary movies and still sleep at night, the dark doesn’t usually bother me. I’ve had plenty of actual scary stuff in my life without imagining supernatural crap. This whole mirror thing and my urge to run back to the safety of my bed, what was that? Meeting Corky had definitely done something to me. I was now creepily aware that a whole other side of the world existed, an unseen side that could see me. Standing there, alone in the dark apartment, with the faintest ribbon of sound drifting from under the locked door, the last of my superiority crumbled. Was it a voice? A whisper? Whatever it was, it didn’t sound welcoming. From my neck to my butt, cold tingles ran down like drops of water.

  Just go back to bed. Who cares what it is? I argued with myself. Yeah, right. You really want to be that girl? The high heeled screamer or the "it's just my imagination, gutted in her sleep" loser?

  I femmed up and put my ear against the door. It was cool like the floorboards beneath my bare feet.

  “Julia…” The name floated through the oak door as if it wasn't there.

  My breath caught in my throat. The sound was sad and desperate. It made me feel things I didn't want to feel, things like loss and betrayal. A wave of sorrow passed through me, weakening me down to my bones with the force of its despair. I leaned against the door, shutting my eyes, fighting not to cry. What the hell was happening to me? I could close my eyes against the pain in that voice, but not what it stirred in my heart.

  “JU-LIA!”

  The chopped, angry syllables sliced through the air, anger, and hatred surging around me. My eyes flew open as panic flooded me. The grief had turned to rage.

  BAMM!

  Something slammed hard against the door, rattling it in the frame. The impact sent shock waves through my ear and face. I shot back across the hall, heart ratcheting inside my chest. A crazy image of a crawfish shooting itself backwards in the water to escape filled my head. I shook myself to clear it. I needed to focus on what the hell was going on. My breath came in thick, fast pants and I stared in horror as the air leaving my mouth turned white in the now freezing cold air.

  “Ju-li-aaa!” It was the voice of a man pushed over the edge. If he had loved her once, he had lost. And when he did, he had lost himself.

  My back molded to the wall behind me as I fought for some control. Fear could freeze you, could get you killed…..or worse. The door handle rattled as someone or something tried to open it. There was a pain in my chest as my heart tried to beat it's way free and escape this horror. If he could rattle the door, could he slide the bolt? Was he trapped on that side? I considered and rejected prayer in two seconds. When had God ever been there for me? This morning I had woken up safe…safe. Now, I was in the middle of a nightmare. In my own house, a house I paid rent for, that had locks on the doors. Fury filled me. I tasted it in my mouth, bright and bitter as blood. This was bullshit!

  “GET OUT!” The words ripped their way out of me, and I was at the door before I knew it, banging my own fist against the wood. “GET OUT OF MY HOUSE! GET OUT!!” Both my fists beat against the door, hammering a furious rhythm of rage.

  He was angry? He had lost something? Well, I was fucking angry too. All my life had been about losing and fuck if I was giving up my first bit of peace and quiet to a dead guy with adjustment issues. I added a few swift kicks to the door for good measure.

  Below me, Corky began barking. It was angry, aggressive, and I knew, without knowing how Corky wasn’t threatening me…but whatever was behind the door. My fists slowed and stopped. The air was thick with the sound of harsh, ragged breathing that wasn't mine. There was a thump and the floor shuddered beneath my feet. Someone was going down the stairs, retreating. The steps were uneven, a step and a hollow thumping sound. It was eerie and unnatural and should have scared me more, but I was still full of adrenaline. I stood still, sweat streaming down me and fear forgotten, flushed with victory. Corky snarled and the sound sent chills across my skin. Below me, the outside door slammed, rattling the windows and then leaving me alone in a thick and waiting silence.

  Abruptly the adrenaline fueling me drained away. He was gone for now, but there was no guarantee he wouldn't be back. I sank to the floor, too unnerved to move down the dark hall. I was scared to go and scared to stay. I pressed my hand to my mouth as I realized there was nowhere I could go. This was all the home I had.

  Chapter 7

  When I woke up, I was stiff and sore and the shower was calling me. I shook off the last tangled cobwebs from my bad dreams and forced myself out of bed. The kitchen chair I had jammed in front of the hall door was sobering. What the hell had I thought that was going to stop? I stood in the stream of hot water, wishing I could blame last night on food poisoning or illegal drug use. No such luck. My hands were bruised from beating on the door and my foot ached from my kicking tantrum.

  When the water turned cool, I reluctantly turned off the shower and got out. Thank God today was my day off. My next thought was to put some coffee on. I hadn't thought about a coffee pot at the thrift store and there was no denying that the sight of one in Mr. D's boxes, along with a can of chicory coffee like we drank at the bakery, had made me grateful beyond words. While waiting for it to brew, I moved stiffly to the fridge, gathering butter, eggs, and milk. I needed to bake something. Something about the act of creating food helped me organize my head. There was nothing magical or supernatural about it, but it felt right, almost like a ritual, as if I was claiming this space, this house, as my own.
I figured scones would be easy and they kept forever. As I cut the butter into the flour, my hands protested the motion and I winced from the pain. A quick rummage in the cabinet turned up a box of raisins and I dumped some in. A lonely orange from the fridge gave up the last of its zest for life. I moved gingerly to pat the dough into a big circle and then cut it in wedges. They were in the oven by the time I poured my first cup of coffee. And I had my new table to sit at while I drank my coffee. This was kind of nice, evil spirits aside. Only, who the hell had been in the house last night? And he had come in. He definitely didn't live here. I knew that. Somehow I felt it as the truth inside me. I sighed, knowing I had to face it sooner rather than later. It was time for a chat with the old lady.

  Which was how for the first time since I signed the lease, I went looking for Mrs. Evers. This decision broke a cardinal rule … no instigation of conversation. I figured I could file this under professional “need to know,” (prevention of death by a vengeful, transitionally challenged, dead guy type of need to know). I was guessing there was more to the story then she had told me. I mean, there are sad stories and there are horror stories. And given all the stuff happening, I was leaning towards the latter.

  Mrs. Evers was working in her garden and that was one thing I did appreciate. Mrs. Evers had mentioned when I signed the lease she liked to grow stuff but couldn’t eat it all. She kept baskets of vegetables and fruit on a street side table shaded by an oak tree. People would stop and get tomatoes, peppers, some squash, or whatever was available. She had been old-lady insistent that I help myself and I was pretty happy to. My food budget was small, but I was pretty spoiled by all the fresh stuff we used at the bakery. And if my cooking (versus baking) skills were iffy, I was still happy to try.

  Mrs. Evers was decked out in Southern old lady wear, a big straw hat, flowery clothes and an oak split basket. I don't know why seeing her made me feel better, but it did. Maybe just another living person was enough to drive off some of the heebies from the night before. She turned just then, and seeing me, she smiled.

  “Chile,” Mrs. Evers called, “you should smile more. Lights your whole face up."

  I hadn't realized I was smiling. I considered if I wanted my whole face to light up, decided there wasn’t much use for it, and stopped.

  “Come taste this!” she said in that bossy, but sweet way old ladies have, making it impossible to say no without being an ass.

  Mental sigh. This was going to suck.

  I walked down the row where she was working. Mrs. Evers was nothing like quiet, peaceful Mrs. D. Both were older and always seemed busy, but Mrs. D flowed from one task to another, a deep peaceful river, purposeful and serene. Mrs. Evers was like a stream, here and there, chattery, bumping up against you in a flighty, but friendly way.

  “Don’t look so gloomy. I’m not going to poison you,” she laughed. “Chile, you need to enjoy life more."

  Enjoy life? From my perspective, this was a survival game. I hadn't given much thought to enjoying it.

  “You ever had a fresh garden pea?” Mrs. Evers held a green thing out to me. “Fresh off the vine?”

  I shook my head and looked doubtfully at the lumpy, green crescent in her hand. Peas were gross. They were squishy and tasted metallic like the cans they came in. But I wanted info and a payment was due, so I took the green thing. This was the kind of life enjoyment I got stuck with. Peas.

  Mrs. Evers showed me how to slit the shell thing open and nestled inside were honest-to-god peas in a pod. I was surprised at how cute they were. She tilted her head and used one finger to nudge the peas out of the pod and into her mouth. Grimacing, I copied her and then bit down. Mrs. Evers clapped her thin hands together and laughed at the look of surprise on my face.

  Whoa, these things were good! Crisp and almost sweet, the taste was sort of fresh and green.

  She handed me another and I slit the side, popping them into my mouth. These things rocked. I was definitely gonna snag some of these out the baskets next time.

  “The thing about peas and beans is, you have to keep them picked. The more you pick,” she told me, passing me a handful, “the more they make. You come over here anytime, chile, and get some peas or green beans.”

  I wasn’t sure about beans but the peas were definitely tempting. Only, I hadn't come over here for the gardening lesson.

  “Mrs. Evers…” I started and hesitated. I hadn't thought out what exactly I was going to say. In the bright sunshine, ghostly whispers and thumps seemed pretty stupid. She looked at me and her faded eyes grew bright.

  “Chile,” she said, “you want to know about Julia and that old Corky?”

  I stared at her in surprise and Mrs. Evers laughed again. She was a happy old bird, I’d give her that.

  “Oh, sooner or later, they all do.” Mrs. Evers said, then her face grew disapproving. “Mind you, most of them, I don’t tell a thing. Ghosty hunters and busybodies. I had one man tell me he could free the house.” she snorted. “Horsefeathers. Nobody's trapped here, not against their will.” She seemed to expect something, so I nodded like I agreed.

  “But no one’s seen Corky going on, oh, thirty years or so. You've got it strong.” Mrs. Evers shook her head, in amazement or dismay was anybody's guess. “Little boy, name of Edward, he was the last.” she smiled, remembering. “Oh, they were good buddies. Lots of times, I'd get so tickled, hearing them out in the garden, the boy laughing, Corky barking. No telling what those two got up to!” Her face crinkled happily at the thought. “Course now, his parents couldn’t hear. I guess they thought it was an imaginary friend like children do have.” She stared down the garden row, thoughtfully. “Now, I often wonder if these friends we can’t see or hear are more real then we know.”

  I stood still, the mouthful of peas forgotten.

  Oh yes,” she said, misunderstanding my wide-eyed stare, “I could always hear Corky, but I never did see him.”

  I swallowed quickly. “But,” I stuttered, “he comes outside?”

  “Oh, chile,” Mrs. Evers said, with real dismay. “I should have told you! Leave the downstairs door open and he’ll go in and out with you.” She patted my arm. “I've thought about putting in a doggie door. I don’t know if he’d use it, but I'd like him to have the choice.” Mrs. Evers moved off down the row of plants toward the house and I followed her, eating peas as I went. “You know, I have a picture of Julia and Corky up at the house.”

  I stopped, looking at her retreating back in surprise. She had said Corky was over two hundred years old. Did they have pictures back then? I tried to calculate. Early 1800's? No, late 1700's, was more like it.

  Mrs. Evers was quite a bit ahead of me now and I hurried to catch up.

  “I'll see what I can find,” she said, speaking over her shoulder as she walked. “Best if you come over about 6:30 for some supper. Give me time to find it.” She beetled down the row, heading for the house.

  What the hell? I considered yelling "no thanks" at her retreating back, but couldn't bring myself to do it.

  “Pick yourself some more peas, chile." She called back, waving as she climbed the steps to the back porch.

  More peas? I looked down and saw I had eaten the whole handful.

  “6:30 now!” Mrs. Evers repeated and she scooted into the house, leaving me with the feeling the price for information had just become a lot steeper.

  ***

  When I thought about it, Mrs. Evers was pretty clever, sucking me in with the promise of a story and a picture. I couldn’t do anything but go. Still, I spent the rest of the day thinking I was making a big mistake. As I trudged back to the house, my shirt growing sticky with sweat even this early, I kept my eyes on the ground looking for footprints. I was kind of annoyed at myself for not doing this earlier. The sandy driveway was covered in the prints of my sneakers and Mr. D's boots, but that was all. I approached the downstairs door cautiously and rattled the handle. Locked. From inside, Corky barked. I guess he heard the rattle.

  “It's
just me, you dumb mutt,” I told him. He barked again and this time I knew he knew it was me. His bark was happier, whinier. I pulled the keys out my pocket and unlocked the door. Stepping back, I called him. “Wanna come out, Cork?”

  A blur of white barreled past me out into the yard. Damn. I was pretty sure a live dog couldn't move that fast. He ran back and forth along the hedge line, his neck stretched out, his feet bunching under, and galloped like a horse. I had to laugh at his enthusiasm, even the sound was like a horse, a steady beat of his paws drumming on the ground. It was too hot to stand there so I moved over under the big oak, wishing I had some kind of lawn chair. The problem was carrying one here on the back of my bike would be pretty hard, not to mention ridiculous looking. I whittled away the morning playing catch with Corky. At noon, I went upstairs to make a sandwich and was relieved to find the place empty and quiet with no eerie, neck crawling aura tainting the place. I eyed the air conditioner longingly, but until I saw what the bills were going to be like, I just couldn't risk running them up. I sighed, it was going to b-e a long hot summer. I snagged my book, intending to escape the killer heat and raging haints by immersing myself in zombies and survival. Kind of unnerving that my life was more surreal than fiction.

  ***

  Dinner, that evening, was a revelation of homegrown green beans and new potatoes with pork chops.

  “Cajun green beans.” Mrs. Evers said, dishing a ladle full onto my plate. I eyed the mound of vegetables with alarm, but the first taste took any reservations away. They were spicy and salty, and as different from canned beans as chalk from cheese. She added a square of cornbread and pushed the butter dish in my direction. Instead of the usual sweet tea, we had big glasses of cold milk. After the first few bites, I realized why and took a big gulp to ease the cayenne off my tongue. We ate inside the screen porch. The evening air still and warm. Overhead, the ceiling fan did it's best to create a breeze.