by Katie Tallo
The video is stamped, 21:30 August 4, 2006. The date makes her gasp even though she knows her mother recorded the video the night she died. But seeing the date transports her back to that terrible day. Shannon filmed this video twelve years ago. Then she came home, copied it to a memory stick, and inserted that stick inside Levi’s collar. She hid it well. She didn’t want it found by the wrong people.
Augusta’s body shudders involuntarily.
At first the images are so dark it’s hard for her to make out what’s happening.
But as the video continues, the images become more clear.
It’s 9:30 P.M. The hours leading to her mother’s death begin to unfold.
And they prove more frightening than she could have ever imagined.
42
Shannon
THE FOOTAGE IS DARK, BUT GUS CAN SEE SPORADIC MOVEMENTS. Then the image jostles. Night-vision mode clicks on. As it does, Shannon’s face momentarily appears in the frame as she turns the camera and pushes the button. But it doesn’t look like her. Light is dark and dark is light. She looks otherworldly. White eyes and mouth. Green glowing hair. The view swings back to her point of view, across the hood of a car toward a house. She’s some distance from the house, but Gus recognizes the sloping dormers and peaked gables and broad front porch.
It’s Halladay House.
Dark clouds dance across a light green sky. Lightning flashes on the horizon. A black moon emerges from behind a roaming cloud. Details sharpen. A small figure darts across the driveway and around the side of the house.
Augusta pauses the video. Desperate to hear the audio. She needs to hear if her mother’s saying anything. But she doesn’t want anyone in the crowded mall to listen in. Gus returns to Radio Shack. She buys a set of headphones from the same young man. Again, he helps her find the right ones for her phone. Then she heads back to the sofa. Her spot’s been taken. She can’t wait a second longer. She eyes a space on the carpet behind the sofas between some planters overflowing with plastic ferns. Gus nestles in between the planters where no one can step on her and sits down cross-legged. She plugs her new headphones into the audio jack of her phone, puts in the earbuds, and presses play.
The first sound she hears is her mother breathing. Hard. Augusta’s eyes fill with tears. She feels like she’s right there with her mother, running across the lawn, camera bobbling. Shannon is holding it waist high. The view is rocky as she rounds the house and spots the figure running into the back garden. A young girl. Limping through the rosebushes. Doesn’t look back. Shannon is closing in, then the girl disappears. One minute she’s stepping through a trellis and the next, gone. Shannon’s lens scans the garden. Left. Then right. She crosses under the trellis. Then she whispers.
Gracie. Where are you?
Gus gasps at the sound of her mother’s voice. So alive. So close it’s as if she’s come back from the dead, whispering in Augusta’s ear. The sound is bittersweet. Familiar, yet almost forgotten. Gus curses herself for letting that voice get lost deep in the damaged parts of her soul. But in this moment, it’s not her soul, it’s her body that yearns for more of that sound. Her gut. Her heart. Her ears. All longing for more of those whispers from her mother’s lips. And yet more would almost be too much to bear. Torturous.
A noise comes from the house behind Shannon. Laughter. Men’s voices talking loudly. The camera pans toward the house. Shannon’s filming through the spidery vines hanging from the trellis. A man is standing outside on the back porch. He lights a cigarette but he’s too far away to see his face clearly. Doesn’t look big enough to be Kep Halladay. He hasn’t seen her so she must be hidden. A voice calls from inside the house.
Benchwarmer? Get back in here.
The man tosses his cigarette on the lawn and goes back inside.
The camera turns back to where Gracie disappeared and scans the garden. It moves forward as Shannon searches for the girl. Gus can hear dry branches snapping under her feet.
Gracie. It’s me, Shannon. Detective Monet.
Suddenly the camera jerks, hits the ground, and rolls on its side. Gus holds her breath. Eyes wide. There’s scrambling, then the camera’s picked up.
Fucking hell.
Her mother curses in a whisper. She must have tripped. The lens is dirty. Shannon rotates the camera so the lens is facing her. She spits on the glass then wipes it with the edge of her sleeve. She’s wearing a jean shirt. She’s sweating. Her eyes are wide. Hair tousled.
She’s alive and breathing.
Gus pauses, rewinds, then plays the image over again. And again. Each time freezing the frame on her mother’s face. Gus stares, spellbound. There’s a fearlessness and a fire burning inside her mother’s eyes.
“What are you doing out there, Mama?”
Gus says this out loud. Oblivious to the shoppers side-glancing at the young woman huddled on the carpet talking to herself. Gus lets the video play on. Shannon turns the camera back toward a gravel path that winds through a derelict rose garden surrounded by a low stone wall. The camera scans the dark corners as it moves along the path. She almost misses it. But something catches her mother’s attention. The lens tracks back, then moves forward. Hidden by thorny branches is a small hatch in the ground. It stands open.
Gracie?
The trapdoor was covering a hole in the ground that goes straight down. A well. There’s a small ladder on the well’s wall. Shannon continues to film as she lowers herself down the ladder. Below ground.
Gus flashes to herself sinking into the earth on her visit to Halladay House. Then she remembers Renata’s story about Kep’s grandfather building the house in the 1920s.
He named it Halladay House. It was a huge property. Underground he dug a network of tunnels leading from the house to the barn where he operated his distillery. Spidering under his property and beyond.
Gus realizes that wasn’t some random bog she fell into that night. And this is no well Shannon’s climbing down into. It’s the tunnels. The camera settles as Shannon reaches the bottom. The view reveals a narrow passageway. Five or six feet high with a rocky base. The tunnel is reinforced with wood beams. Gus can hear her mother’s footsteps crunching over the stones. She’s being too loud.
Augusta’s entire body bristles as she desperately tries to cross through the invisible membrane between their two realities. Tries to will herself into her mother’s world. She needs to be there to watch her back. Protect her. Warn her of the danger to come, even though she has no idea what that danger looks like or when it happens.
Shannon follows the tunnel to a wooden door. She tries the handle. The door creaks open. Beyond it is a corridor lit by tea lights set along beams stretching the length of the house. The foundation is concrete. Shannon turns off the night vision. It’s light enough without it. She enters what looks to be the basement of Halladay House. The space is cramped as if she’s in the back of a long closet. A noise causes the camera to jump. Shannon pans left, catching a glimpse of a small foot disappearing up a narrow wood staircase. Shannon follows, creeping slowly up the rickety stairs.
Edgar was right. There are spaces behind the walls of Halladay House. Hidden passageways. He’d seen them. Played in them with Gracie.
At the top of the stairs, the camera swings left then right. She’s out of the basement. On the main floor of the house. Still behind the walls. No sign of Gracie. Men’s voices can be heard talking. Muffled but close. Shannon inches down the passageway. A voice is suddenly right next to her on the other side of the wall. She freezes. Gus tightens her grip on the phone. Staring at the video as the camera slowly turns toward the voice. A small piece of pink cloth hangs from two nails. Shannon’s hand lifts the cloth to reveal a hole in the wall. Light pokes through the hole. She moves the lens closer. It’s a peephole looking into the front parlor. But only a portion of the room is visible. A fire crackles and light dances on the dark wood paneling.
Hide and see.
That’s what Edgar said when he pointed at the b
ookcase in the parlor of his Halladay House model. This parlor looks exactly the same. The view is from the back of a bookcase right next to the fireplace facing the high-back chairs. A rolling cart laden with bottles of booze sits in front of the bookcase. Edgar and Gracie must have spied on the grown-ups from this very spot. Child’s play. But this is nothing close to that. A chill runs through Gus as she sees who is sitting right in front of her. Right in front of Shannon.
Kep Halladay. He sits in one of the big armchairs, legs splayed, leaning forward so his barrel chest is resting on his thighs, red face looking like it might implode.
Gus can’t breathe. Her body shudders. It’s him. In the flesh. He’s terrifying. Larger than life. His eyes sparkle a reddish orange reflecting the fire in the hearth. His bushy eyebrows furrow. His gravel voice rumbles like thunder.
You fuckin’ lowlifes. This isn’t a debate. It’s a fuckin’ order. That bitch needs her balls chopped off. Cop or no cop.
He sucks on a big cigar, then leans back in his chair.
Another man comes into view. This one sips whiskey from a rock glass. Turns away from Kep, facing the bookcase and Shannon’s lens. His face flickers in the firelight. Gus knows him from the deep-set eyes, dark black hair, broad shoulders, crumpled ear. Desmond Oaks. Only he isn’t a mass of burnt flesh. He’s young. Maybe thirty. Someone else speaks, but he’s across the room and beyond Shannon’s field of vision. His voice is hesitant, hard to make out, yet something in his tone resonates with her. Gus hopes it’s not who she thinks it is.
I can talk to her. Get her to back off.
Kep tosses his cigar in the direction of the unseen man.
You back talkin’ me, you little prick? You don’t get a say. Not since the day I kept you both outta juvie do either of you get a say in fuck all.
Dez flinches and downs the rest of his whiskey. Kep smiles. Knows he’s getting under his skin.
You got a problem, Grease Monkey?
Dez turns to face Kep. His back to the camera.
My debt’s been paid, old man. And then some.
Kep rises. He’s even bigger than Dez. They stand nose to nose.
You think I like taking care of that half-wit freak you spawned?
Kep grabs Dez by the collar. It looks like he’s lifting him off the ground. The other man across the room chimes in.
Easy, boys. Stop clangin’ balls.
Dez pulls free from Kep’s grip. This is between me and him.
Kep laughs and with a dismissive flip of his hand, he sits back down in his big armchair and lights a new cigar. Dez turns away from Kep, facing the camera, resting his drink on the mantel. Trying to control his temper, he speaks in a near whisper.
I’ve spent half my life doing your bidding, old man. I messed with them brakes. Got rid of that Henry kid when you had no more use for him. And all the while you’re getting rich on what that kid found in them rocks.
Dez turns to face Kep.
The way I see it, you owe me, Halladay. And I aim to collect.
The camera is suddenly bumped. The lens turns and there stands Gracie Halladay. Gus gasps. The little girl is right there. Mere inches from Shannon in the narrow passage. Eyes glassy and wide. Pale yellow dress clinging to her bony eleven-year-old shoulders. She heard everything.
Gus covers her mouth at the sight of the ballerina. She’s not a Polaroid. She’s real. Her little chest is rising and falling. Her cheeks are trimmed with teardrops. The girl hovers a moment, opens her mouth as if she’s about to speak, but Shannon reaches out and quickly puts her hand to the girl’s face. Gracie pulls away and slips down the passageway, disappearing into the darkness. Shannon follows, dropping the camera to her side. It’s still rolling. Her feet move along the dusty floorboards. The passageway dead-ends at a half wall. Shannon crawls under the wall into a cramped space. She raises the camera. A spiral staircase leads up the side of the house. She films as she winds round and round until she reaches the top, emerging into a small attic room with sloped walls under steep dormers.
Gracie? Don’t be scared.
The paint on the walls is peeling. It’s light pink. The only window is a small circular one above a bed. On the bed is a tattered rose-colored quilt and a small heart-shaped pillow. A side table stands next to the bed. On the table sit a melted candle on a saucer, a mason jar filled with daffodil deadheads, and a small diary. A circular wool rug lies in the center of the room.
It’s a little girl’s room. Gracie’s room. Large, but claustrophobic and stark. There’s no visible door into the main house. The only access seems to be the spiral staircase leading to the passageways behind the walls of the house. It’s a hiding place that no one can enter but Gracie. A place she can be alone.
As Gus gazes in wonder at Gracie’s hidden attic room, a gaping hole in her investigator’s brain opens wide. She crawls through and sees her mistake.
Gracie is still alive.
Goose bumps pop up all over her arms. Her mouth is dry.
Clear as day, Gus now sees her.
The figure limping across the horizon near the Elgin cemetery.
One of Gracie’s legs was crushed. The doctors reset the bones, but she always walked with a limp after that.
The knife thrower trying to keep strangers from Elgin.
Gracie just wanted to be left alone and I suppose she got her wish in the end.
The dead possum and the diary left as gifts. Olive branches.
Possum came back to life today, Ma.
Gracie isn’t a ghost living in a ghost town. She’s a grown woman living way up in the rafters of a boarded-up mansion, where the dust in the foyer is so thick it’s as if no one’s disturbed it in years. It is a hiding place. An attic room where no one would ever think to look. Where no one would guess someone still lives. With a secret way in through the tunnels.
“I know where Gracie is, Mama!” Gus shouts. Trying to communicate with her mother through the phone. But she can’t. She’s in a mall twelve years later. Gus looks up from the video. A woman pulls her child away and hurries down the concourse. Gus is disoriented as she looks around at the bright lights. She stops breathing. Squints.
A floorboard creaks over her headphones, pulling Augusta back into Shannon’s world. Her mother is in the attic. Gus is there with her. Shannon moves slowly across the room. Gus holds her breath. The ceiling is lit by a ragged string of bulbs strung across nails. Most are burned out. On the far side of the attic, there’s a large table. Shannon moves toward it. Laid out on the tabletop is an array of knives, twine, bags of cotton batten, sewing instruments, a small makeup kit, a toolbox, and a row of jars filled with colored liquids. Blue, bright green, orange-yellow solutions. The lid is off one of the jars of fluorescent-green liquid. There’s a bookcase in the corner. It’s dark. Hard to see what’s on it. She can only make out some large gray shapes.
“What are those?”
Shannon and Gus say the words at the same time.
Shannon steps closer to the bookcase. Suddenly, the camera jerks back as she gasps at what she sees. On each shelf is a dead animal. A rabbit, a possum, a squirrel, a raccoon, and a black bird. Some are missing limbs. Others have partially crushed torsos or mangled ears. They’ve been cleaned and sewn back together. Then crudely stuffed with cotton. It’s all a little too Frankensteinian.
What the fuck?
Just as the words come out of Shannon’s mouth, a floorboard winces behind her. Gus lets out a tiny cry. The camera spins around as a flash of Gracie’s yellow dress disappears down a trapdoor where the circular rug had hidden it. As Shannon lurches for the handle, a bolt clicks. She pulls but the trapdoor won’t budge. Shannon moves fast. Across the room toward the spiral staircase. Down the way she came in. The camera swings at her side. Gus shivers. Blood throbs at her temples. The image is dizzying to watch, but Gus can make out the planks of the spiral stairs and then the floorboards of the narrow passageway behind the parlor.
Shannon’s trying to get out of there before Gra
cie can tell on her.
Gus holds the phone closer, her grip tightening. She’s terrified for her mother. Wants her to be safe. Even though Gus knows she’s not going to be okay, she holds out hope that this video somehow proves her mother escaped or was saved or ran away or is being held hostage. Anything but dying in a car wreck.
The camera lifts to eye level. Shannon pauses at the entrance to the stairs that lead to the basement and the ladder out to the garden. Kep’s voice echoes from the parlor. She hesitates, then moves down the passage. She’s not leaving. Gus shakes her head.
There’s the apple of my eye. Come over here, Gracie. Let’s get a look at you.
Shannon inches toward the voices. Pulls aside the pink cloth covering the peephole and presses the lens close. Kep is still sitting in his armchair. Dez sits in the chair next to him. The third man still isn’t visible, if he’s there at all. Gracie stands next to Kep. Head hung. Eyes down. Tiny shoulders slouching.
Buck up, girl. Make yourself useful. Fix me a drink.
Gracie shuffles toward the rolling cart that serves as the parlor’s bar. It’s directly below the bookcase. Her back is to the two men. She’s facing Shannon’s lens. Her lips are pursed tight as she grabs ice from a bucket, slips two cubes into a rock glass, then pours soda over the ice.
Dez looks relaxed. Less combative than before. The men have reached some sort of agreement.
Get it done before the weekend and I’ll throw you two a party to celebrate your release from the shackles of my employ.
Kep chuckles and sucks on his cigar. Dez grins.
You know I’m always up for a party, Mr. Halladay.
Gracie pours whiskey into the glass then adds a splash of fluorescent-green liquid from a tiny bottle. She stirs the drink with a plastic stick, then quickly puts the bottle back in the pocket of her dress.
The third man pipes up from across the room.