“I found this in the shed,” she said.
He glanced down at it but kept his eyes on her, on the gun that was pointed at him.
When there’s a gun in the room with you, you give it your full attention.
Daddy looked tired. Thin. The dark circles under his eyes made him look like a raccoon man. “Put down the gun and we can talk, Olive,” he said, voice like the chatter of an anxious coon. Danger. There’s danger here.
“Do you know what this is?” Olive asked, nodding at the book.
“No,” he said. “I’ve never seen it before.”
“Mama’s diary,” she said.
His face twitched slightly. “Lower the weapon, Olive,” he said.
“Did you know she was keeping a diary?”
He shook his head. The little color he had left his face, until he was as pale as the walls.
“I read it, you know. Can you guess what she wrote?”
He was silent, thinking, his jaw clenching, eyes on the gun. “Is it about the other men?” he asked finally.
She laughed. “You know what? I don’t think there ever were any other men. I think that was entirely your paranoia. Or maybe just you trying to cover your tracks.”
“Cover my tracks?”
“You know what’s in this diary? You know what she wrote? She wrote that she was afraid of you.” Olive swallowed hard, looked at her father. Her father who taught her to shoot and to follow the rules of a hunter: respect your weapon; never fire on a target you’re not sure of; never let an animal suffer; never, ever aim a gun at a person unless you intend to use it. “Why’s that, Daddy? Why would Mama be afraid of you?”
“Afraid of me?” he said, voice low, raspy, like he was in danger of losing it altogether.
“I read the diary,” she said. Her hands were hot and sweaty on the gun. She kept her finger on the trigger. “Don’t lie to me.”
She looked around the room, saw the torn-open walls, the missing floorboards. The constant state of destruction and demolition she lived inside. Then she understood. She finally figured out her father’s constant obsession with deconstructing the house. She felt like a cartoon character with a lightbulb going off over her head. “You’ve been looking for her map and the diary, haven’t you?” she said.
“What map?”
“The map to Hattie’s treasure. You thought she must have hid it in the house. Hid it somewhere good, somewhere no one would look. And the diary, that might prove what you did.”
He looked pained, his face proof of the expression “The truth hurts.”
“I—” he stammered, unable to come up with any more words.
“But you never found it, did you?”
He didn’t answer.
“I know you hurt her,” Olive said.
“Hurt her?” He staggered back as if the weight of her words struck him in the chest. “Where on earth did you get that idea?”
“That’s what Mama wrote in her diary. That you hurt her. And you threatened to make her disappear.”
He was leaning against the counter now.
“She said that?” The words came slowly. “Why would she have said that?”
“You tell me, Dad.”
He shook his head. “I have no idea. I never hurt your mother or threatened her in any way. I would never dream of it.” He seemed to sink deeper into himself, to be taking up less and less space. The incredible shrinking man.
It was hard for Olive to believe that her father was lying—he looked so genuinely confused and hurt. But why would Mama have written those words in her diary?
Her father’s eyes moved from Olive and the gun to the kitchen window. “There’s someone out there,” he said.
“What?” Keeping the gun on him (was it a trick, something he was doing to divert her attention so he could get the gun?), she glanced out the window.
Daddy was right. She saw movement. She thought at first it was Dicky Barnes, that he’d come for her. Dicky and his band of spirit-calling witches were the last thing she needed right now.
But it wasn’t Dicky.
She saw the white dress, the glow of the white deer mask in the cool blue light of the moon.
Daddy stood looking out the window, blinking in disbelief at the deer head with white fur, long snout, glossy black eyes. “What the hell is that?” he asked.
But Olive was already at the kitchen door, throwing it open, watching the figure dart off across the yard toward the tree line.
“Mama?” she cried. The figure stopped, turned back to look at Olive, the white mask seeming to glow. Then she turned away again and ran off into the woods. “Mama! Please! Wait!”
CHAPTER 45
Lori Kissner
S JUNE 29, 2014
The others knew. She was sure of it.
She went to the circle tonight, just as she did each week, as she’d been doing for the past six months now, and stepped into the center of the group right on cue, playing Hattie, channeling. She wore the white dress, the black wig, her beaded shoes, and, tonight, as the perfect finishing touch, Hattie’s necklace.
The others believed she had a gift.
She heard Hattie’s voice as no one ever had before.
She heard it and she let it speak through her.
It was like she invited Hattie inside her, let her take over her body and mind, her tongue and mouth, let her say and do what she pleased.
She did have a gift.
And now, now she understood why.
She’d done the research. She’d been to the mill in Lewisburg and learned what happened to Hattie’s daughter, Jane. And eventually she’d learned that Jane had had two children, Ann and Mark, and that Ann was none other than Lori’s mother, and Mark was Lori’s uncle, the one who had taken them in after the “tragedy.”
Before Ann’s death, she had said little about her own mother to Lori. Of course, Lori understood about keeping the past a secret. She’d kept her own past a secret all her life. When she moved in with Uncle Mark and Aunt Sara, she reinvented herself—started going by Lori and asked to have her last name legally changed to theirs. As if leaving the past, and all the pain that came with it, behind could ever be that easy.
Lori told no one about how she’d watched her father shoot her mother, then himself. She just told people, “My name is Lori Whitcomb. I grew up in Keene. My mom and dad are Sara and Mark Whitcomb.” What happened in Elsbury, when she was little Gloria Gray, was long ago and far away—and she liked it that way. Perhaps she shouldn’t judge her mother for never teaching her children her own mother’s name and the gruesome details of her death.
And now, years later, Lori told no one of what she’d learned about her true family history. Family tradition, after all. It was a powerful secret she kept, that she was related to Hattie by blood.
At first, Lori had believed that maybe she did have a gift. Maybe she was touched, as Hattie had been. Maybe it ran in the family, passed down to each generation of women.
Then she realized the truth.
Any power she had, any gift of divination or secret knowledge—it all came from Hattie. She knew things because Hattie spoke to her.
And now the words Hattie spoke were words of warning.
Be careful, Hattie whispered to Lori in her dreams. You’re in danger.
And now, now that she’d found the treasure, actually found it with Hattie’s help and blessing, she felt the walls closing in. All their eyes were on her, searching.
“Any updates?” they’d asked. “Any sign of it yet?”
“No,” she lied. “Nothing yet.”
She hadn’t wanted to come to the circle tonight at all. She wanted to stop going to the weekly gatherings altogether. To drop out of the group. To pass on her role as Hattie to someone else. But that would look suspicious. So she played along.
. . .
Once Lori put the necklace on, started wearing it day and night, hidden under her shirts, the visions and dreams truly started.
She dreamed of Hattie’s house again and again. Of Hattie stacking rocks for the foundation after her family home had been burned down, her mother killed.
Lori took out the necklace, looked down at the design, at the circle, triangle, and square that was the door to the spirit world. The door with the eye inside. A symbol that Hattie had been able to see things in both worlds, had the gift of sight.
Lori started going out at night so she wouldn’t be seen. She told Dustin she was going out to see friends, to see a band, any excuse she could think of. She wanted to surprise him with the truth. To bring that treasure home and say, This is my secret. This is what I’ve been hiding.
The digging was hard. She’d have to bring a change of clothes with her so she wouldn’t come home soaking wet and filthy. The worst part was trying to put things back in a way that made it look like the area hadn’t been disturbed. The last thing she wanted was a hiker or teenage stoner coming out, seeing the recent excavations, and getting curious. Rumors of Hattie’s buried treasure had gone on for generations—most people didn’t believe it, but still, treasure hunters came poking around from time to time.
The necklace and dreams brought her closer to the treasure.
After nearly two weeks of digging almost every night, she found it last night! A crumbling wooden box. Inside that, a metal box with rusted hinges and catches. She broke it open with the spade of her shovel—inside was jewelry, gold coins, old bills, all wrapped in waxed canvas. It was real. As much as she trusted Hattie to lead her, she couldn’t quite believe that it was here, that she could touch it. She gingerly picked up a gold bracelet—were those rubies? Garnets? She put the bracelet back, nestled among other things that glinted and sparkled. She blinked down stupidly at the treasure, unsure of what to do next. It was nearly two in the morning. The box was too big; there was too much to carry back on her own easily. She decided to rebury it and come back again soon, once she’d thought things through and made a plan.
She carefully put it all back in the ground, changed into dry clothes then walked home and slipped into bed beside Dustin. He didn’t stir.
. . .
Tonight, as she drove home from the spirit circle, she knew time was running out. The others were suspicious. They’d be watching her, keeping a close eye. She needed to go back and get the treasure soon—tonight! She’d do it tonight. She’d go home, change into old clothes for digging, pick up Dustin’s canvas duffel bag and go get the treasure. Then she’d bring it home, hide it. She’d show Dustin, of course, and together, they’d figure out what their next move should be.
Heart pounding, shaky with adrenaline, she turned off the headlights as she pulled into to her driveway and up to the dark house. She opened the front door slowly, crept into the hall.
The kitchen light came on.
Dustin was waiting for her.
“Where have you been?” he asked. His eyes were rimmed with red. From the smell of him and the empty bottle of Jim Beam on the kitchen table, he’d be in no shape to go in to work in the morning. And no shape to start an argument with.
She would tell him now. Tell him everything. “I—”
“And where have you been every damn night? Last night you didn’t get in until two in the morning. Now look at you—creeping in just before midnight, all dressed up, fancy shoes on.”
“Dustin, there’s something I need to tell you,” she said.
“Who is he?” Dustin demanded.
“What? There is no he,” she said.
“Half the town knows it,” he said. “How do you think it feels to go in to work, have the guys whispering about what a dumbass I am because my wife is sleeping around and I don’t even have a fucking clue?”
“Dustin, I’ve never been unfaithful, how could you even—”
“I’m not going to be the dumbass anymore,” he snarled. He stood up from the kitchen table, stumbling a bit. “You know what I keep thinking about? How back when I asked you to marry me, and you took your time answering—you weren’t sure—and me, I needed you to say yes. I needed you to say yes because I didn’t want to live without you. I loved you that much.”
“I loved you, too, Dustin. I love you still.”
“Get out.”
“But, Dustin, I—”
“Get the fuck out of my house! Go on! Before your daughter wakes up and finds out the truth about her slut of a mother!”
Then he slapped her across the face so hard she staggered backward, fell over.
Dustin stood over her, face red, fist raised.
In that moment, she didn’t know him at all.
CHAPTER 46
Helen
S SEPTEMBER 13, 2015
Olive was Hattie’s great-great-granddaughter. Helen could hardly believe it.
Helen called Riley, but the call went to voice mail. “I found Gloria Gray. You’re not going to believe who it is. Call me as soon as you get this!”
“Helen, maybe we should wait,” Nate said. “Or go to the police first.”
Helen laughed. “The police? You mean Officer Friendly who couldn’t give a shit when someone tried to gas us to death? And what are we going to tell them? That a ghost told me to find Lori Kissner? They already have me flagged in the system as a crazy person, I’m sure.”
“I don’t know . . . I—”
“I’m going to Olive’s right now to talk to Olive. And to Dustin. Are you coming or not?”
They got in the truck, Helen behind the wheel. She threw the truck into reverse before Nate even had his door closed.
“Jesus, Helen, slow down,” Nate said, as she hit the gas, backing up, spinning the wheel to get them turned around, headlights illuminating their decrepit trailer, the motion-activated camera at the edge of the yard near the woods.
Helen ignored him and barreled down the driveway, barely slowing when they got to the road, and she yanked the wheel to the left, the truck fishtailing a bit.
“We’re not going to be any help to Olive or her mom if we’re pinned in a wrecked truck,” Nate reminded her.
“I’ve got it, Nate,” she said. He was quiet.
The headlights turned the road into a brightly lit tunnel of thick trees, the vegetation reaching for the road, everything feeling very alive, very much like it wanted to overtake the road.
Three-quarters of a mile down the road, they came to the dented mailbox at the end of a long, steep drive. kissner was painted on the side in white paint.
Helen turned up the drive, the truck bouncing over the washouts and ruts.
They could see the house at the top, all the lights on.
“Looks like they’re home,” Nate said.
They pulled in behind a half-ton Chevy pickup. Helen cut the engine, reached for the door handle. Nate leaned over, put a hand on her arm.
“Hey,” he said. “Let’s play it cool in there, huh? Maybe Gloria—Lori—really did run off with someone. We don’t have the whole story. Maybe no one needs saving at all.”
“Yeah, maybe,” she said, opening the door and jumping out, but she knew he was wrong.
Olive was in danger. She could feel it all around her. She could practically hear Hattie’s voice screaming at her through time and space: Save her!
Helen ran for the front door. It stood open.
“Wait,” Nate ordered, catching up to Helen, pulling her back, and going in first. “Hello?” he called. “Olive? Dustin?”
Helen was right behind him. They were in a stripped-down front hall with plywood floors, bare stud walls. The living room was to their right, the kitchen to the left. All the lights were blazing. There was a table saw set up in the living room, sheets of drywall leaning against the wall, tools e
verywhere.
“God, it looks like our house—what’s he doing?” Nate said.
Helen shook her head. “Olive said they were doing some renovations. I had no idea . . .”
Nate crossed the living room, jogged up the stairs. Helen stood in the living room, heard his footsteps up above, heard him calling out, “Hello?,” and then he was back downstairs.
“No one’s here,” he said.
Helen checked the bathroom and the kitchen—both rooms had half-finished walls, exposed wiring and plumbing. The kitchen door was open, and Helen stepped through it, looked around the yard. She was sure she’d heard something, a voice calling. Nate came outside and stood beside her, started to speak. She shushed him.
“Did you hear that?” she asked, and right away, she was the crazy lady again, the woman who heard screams in the woods, saw ghosts.
“No,” Nate said. “I didn’t, but—”
And then a voice cut through the darkness. A man’s voice, angry and not too far off.
“Ollie!” he yelled. “Ollie, get back here!”
CHAPTER 47
Olive
S SEPTEMBER 13, 2015
“Ollie!” Daddy called behind her. “Ollie, get back here!”
Olive ran with the shotgun held tight in both hands, kept it firm against her body, barrel pointing up to the left.
Never run with a gun, Daddy always told her, but if there was ever a time for breaking the rules, this was it.
She got to the edge of the yard, passed the old hollowed-out maple she and Mama used to leave gifts for each other in. The place she’d hidden the necklace she now wore.
Mama was ahead of her, just a blur of white moving through the trees like a deer-headed ghost.
And it was like chasing a ghost, so much so that Olive wondered if maybe this wasn’t her mother, if it really was Hattie.
But why would Hattie be wearing her mama’s special fairy-tale shoes? Even in the dark, from a distance, she could make them out—could see the sparkling light from the flower-shaped beading on top.
The Invited (ARC) Page 35