Donn's Hill

by Caryn Larrinaga

  Tom Bishop’s family headed down the aisle, his pallbearers escorting the coffin on its wheeled base. The deep brown wood had been polished until it reflected the large spray of white oriental lilies and carnations that spilled across its top. Penelope looked as regal as I’d expected in a long black gown and an enormous brimmed hat. I watched her face as she walked; it could’ve been carved from stone. Her mouth was perfectly neutral, and she stared straight ahead, not making eye contact with anyone in the pews.

  I narrowed my eyes as I studied her. I wasn’t sure what I’d been expecting—an inconsolable widow with shoulders heaving beneath heavy sobs, maybe, or a few crocodile tears barely masking a smug smile. I didn’t know what to make of her impassive expression.

  “That’s odd,” Graham muttered.

  “What?” I whispered.

  “I would’ve expected Brian Andersen to be a pallbearer.”

  I looked away from Penelope and scanned the six men who accompanied the casket. I didn’t recognize any of them, but they all had the same thick, wavy hair and tall build. They looked as though they could be related to Tom, probably his brothers and nephews. I opened the funeral program and checked the list of pallbearers.

  “Look.” I pointed to the program. “Brian was supposed to be one. His name is listed.” The other five men shared the Bishop surname.

  “I wonder if he’s sick. That would be hard, to be so sick that you miss your best friend’s funeral.”

  Someone in the pew behind us made a shushing sound, and I turned around to mouth an apology. I was startled to see that it was Gabrielle. She looked even more exhausted than she had when we’d grabbed coffee together. The bags beneath her eyes were more pronounced, and she was hunched forward in her pew. A long, black lace mantilla blended in with her raven hair, making her look like a professional mourner.

  Well, what did you expect? She just lost her lover.

  “Sorry,” I whispered.

  She nodded, accepting my apology, and dismissed me with a wave of the back of her hand. I turned around, the heat of embarrassment climbing up my face. Being shushed by Gabrielle made me feel as if my own mother had caught me misbehaving.

  The procession reached the front of the church, and Tom’s family took their places in the first few pews. I’d only ever been to three other funerals, and none of them had been this lavish. Rows of wreaths and standing sprays marched down both sides of the chapel, and the program listed readings and eulogies by ten different people, including the mayor. I felt sympathetic for the latecomers in the metal chairs at the back and the people standing in the vestibule. It was going to be a long service.

  My mother’s funeral had been very small and short. It was a graveside service, and the only people in attendance besides me and my father were my neighbor Darlene and a little old man I hadn’t known. The funeral director had given a brief eulogy and then lowered her into the ground.

  The second funeral I attended was for a friend of my father. I was ten years old, and I hated everything about the service. The church smelled funny; it was crowded; I didn’t know anyone there; and the sad man at the end of the receiving line gave me the willies. I begged my father to let me go back to the car and read my book, but he insisted I stay with him through the line. We drew nearer to the body as my father moved from person to person, shaking hands. With every step, my dread increased. I didn’t want to look inside the casket. The only body I’d seen before had belonged to my mother, and I became convinced that she was lying in this coffin as well. When I reached the body and saw it was the same sad man at the end of the line, I actually was relieved. I never bothered to explain to my father why the air rushed out of me in a great sigh when I looked down at his friend, lying peacefully in his coffin. I didn’t think he’d believe me when I told him his friend was also standing next to the casket, gazing at us with mournful eyes. The memory of the whole episode faded rapidly, replaced with my father taking me out for ice cream afterward since I behaved so well around his friends and coworkers.

  The third funeral had been a little more than a month ago, when my father had passed away. The memory of it was still too fresh, too raw. Within an instant of the thought of my father’s service, my eyes puffed and filled with tears. Good Lord, keep it together.

  I felt someone squeeze my hand and looked down. Graham’s hand covered mine. His skin was warm, but dry and cracked from the hours spent working with clay in his studio. He squeezed my hand once more and then let it go. I looked up at him and smiled, hoping to convey my thanks for his empathy. It was exactly what I needed to pull myself back into the moment.

  The mayor was at the pulpit, praising Tom for being a “civic leader and helping to build and shape our community in countless ways.” He stepped down to murmurs of approval from the gathered mourners.

  My spine stiffened as the next person approached the altar. Tom Bishop’s ghost appeared to be attending his own funeral. Then I realized the man who climbed the stairs and stood at the microphone had a more deeply lined face than Tom, and much grayer hair.

  The speaker introduced himself as Tom’s father, and talked about his son’s love of travel. Tom had been to all fifty states at least once and seemed to be gone more than he was home.

  “But when he was home,” Mr. Bishop said, his voice finally breaking, “he was the guy you wanted to spend all your time with. He had his struggles, but then, we all do. We’ll miss you, Tommy.”

  Penelope didn’t get up to speak. I was disappointed; I was sure I’d be able to figure out how she really felt about her husband’s death from the way she eulogized him.

  The service ended, and the family escorted the casket back out of the church as one of Tom’s older nephews sang James Taylor’s “You Can Close Your Eyes” while playing an acoustic guitar. It was a lovely sendoff and would have been the perfect end to a funeral if the organist hadn’t struck up immediately after, jolting us all out of our seats once again with high-volume exit music.

  I wanted to turn around and apologize to Gabrielle again, but it was impossible to hear anyone over that ridiculous organ. Graham and I joined the ranks of people streaming out of the chapel, and I lost sight of Gabrielle in the crowd. Everyone walked quickly, eager to escape the din. The music stopped while we were still inching through the vestibule, and I never thought the quiet sounded so good.

  I spotted Mark just outside the main doors a few minutes later and waved him over to us.

  “Hey, Mark. How’s it going?” Graham asked.

  Mark scowled and shrugged.

  “That was a neat trick you did in there, getting the organist to quiet down,” I said.

  Mark’s face relaxed into a smile. “Yeah, that’s my great-aunt, Sheryl.” He pointed back into the crowd at a stooped older woman with bright-purple hair who was exiting the building behind us. A knot of other smiling senior citizens surrounded her. “She used to be the main organist here, and she was Tom’s music teacher when he was a kid. She came out of retirement to play today.”

  “That’s sweet.”

  “Sweet and loud. Her hearing’s shot, and she takes her hearing aids out when she plays. I went up there and turned down the volume right after she started, but she cranked it up for the recessional.”

  “I could tell,” I said with a laugh.

  Kit bounded over to us. I hadn’t seen her in the chapel. She must have gotten there after we did. “Hey! Are you guys going to the graveside service?”

  I looked hesitantly at Graham. He was Penelope’s cousin and was planning to attend. But I wasn’t close to the family, and as much as I hated funerals, I hated burials even more. The slow descent of the coffin into the earth was too painful, especially when it contrasted so sharply with a sudden death.

  Even so, he was my ride, so I’d resigned myself to attending. But he seemed to catch what I wanted from my eyes and gave me the out I silently prayed for.

  “Well, I am,” he said. “But could one of you guys give Mac a ride home? I’d hate
for her to be stuck up here with me.”

  “I can give her a lift,” Mark said quickly.

  Kit shook her head. “Mac and I practically live together. I’ll just give her a ride.”

  “All right,” said Graham. “Looks like you’re covered. I’ll see you guys later.” He waved good-bye and headed up the path toward the cemetery.

  I felt slightly awkward. I wanted to see if Kit and Mark would like to go get coffee with me or something, but it seemed strange to ask: “Say, now that this nasty funeral business is over, who wants to hang out and play Ping-Pong?” It felt disrespectful to the dead to make such a suggestion.

  “Great news!” Kit was beaming. “The cops are letting us back into the cabin tomorrow. The dock is still cordoned off, but we don’t need to film there anyway.”

  The thought of going back to the cabin filled me with a sense of dread so strong that I felt a sudden urge to vomit. But I could see how excited Kit was. I didn’t want to bring her down, so I swallowed the bile back into my mouth.

  “That’s great,” I lied.

  Mark’s frown deepened, and for an odd moment, I thought he was going to reach out and give me a hug. Then the moment passed.

  “Well, let’s get out of here,” Kit said. “I’m starving. You guys want to grab something to eat?”

  I smiled. This is why I like you so much, I thought. Kit always seemed happy to say whatever socially-awkward thing I was too nervous to express.

  She headed off for her van. Before I followed, I looked up the hill toward where the mourners were settling in for the graveside service. At first I thought it was a trick of the light, but then I knew: Tom Bishop was standing among the headstones. He wore a black suit and his long hair was slicked back. As he watched his casket being positioned over his grave from a few yards away, he looked like his handsome living self again.

  Is this it? Was his unfinished business just to make sure his body got found and his wife could have some closure? I imagined him fading away, moving on to the next life as his coffin was lowered into the ground and never bothering to hang out in my bathroom again.

  If only it had been that simple.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The woods were quiet as the Soul Searchers and I unloaded our gear from the van. The sun was setting behind the lake as the oaks cast long shadows across the road.

  I’d thought the cabin looked menacing during the day, but that was nothing compared to the way it grinned at me through the twilight. I was sure I’d see a figure standing inside the window—watching, waiting. I couldn’t look away from the cabin, fearing that when I looked back, the figure would be there.

  My eyes began to dry out, and I forced myself to blink. Stop being ridiculous. You’re making this worse than it really is.

  “Nervous?” Yuri asked from beside me.

  “A little,” I admitted.

  “That’s understandable. The last time you were here was traumatic, and not to mention, this is your first nighttime investigation. Even I’ll admit these places are spookier after dark.” He rested a hand on my shoulder. “I’m proud of you for coming back here. Not everyone would be so brave.”

  Of all the things I was feeling in that moment, “brave” wasn’t one of them. I tried to pull some comfort from the dim memory of one of my father’s anthropology lectures over our dinner table and said, “I heard that humans are naturally scared of the dark because of genetic memory. Our instinct is to be afraid of it because our ancestors couldn’t see predators at night.”

  Yuri nodded. “I’ve read that as well. But from a paranormal perspective, it’s also natural to be afraid of the dark because most spirits are dormant in the daytime. At night it’s as though they wake up.”

  I shivered, and he laughed softly.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to frighten you, but the nocturnal nature of ghosts is the reason we’re here right now.”

  Kit joined us and handed me two cases to carry. “And it makes for some damn good TV,” she said, winking at her father.

  Yuri laughed again. “Yes, I guess that’s true too.”

  We walked the equipment over to the fire pit, which was where most of the ghost sightings had occurred. No one knew for sure if that was because the spirit liked to hang out there or because the drunken teenagers usually gathered there. I helped Mark set up lighting equipment and several infrared cameras. We worked quickly, racing against the setting sun. As the last lights of day disappeared behind the trees, the temperature began to drop, reminding us that despite the warm weather over the past few days, it was still only April.

  I pulled on a sweatshirt and sat down on one of the log benches. “So what usually comes next?” I asked Mark.

  “It depends on the place.” He turned on the floodlights and sat down beside me. “If the location is large enough, we’ll split into teams. Kit usually hangs back to monitor the video feeds, and I’ll follow Yuri with a handheld cam as he tries to get the entity to respond.”

  “I’ve seen Yuri knocking on doors and asking the ghost questions on some Soul Searchers episodes. How does he figure out what to talk to the ghosts about?”

  “Oh, you know, Yuri loves his research. He usually has a theory or two about who the ghost was when they were alive, so he’ll bring up things from their life and see if he can get a reaction.”

  “Who does he think this ghost was?”

  Mark scratched the freckled bridge of his nose. “Well, there have been a lot of deaths on the property, so there are about two dozen likely suspects. But Yuri feels pretty strongly that a single spirit caused most of the deaths, so he thinks one of the earliest people to die here is responsible for the tragedies that followed.”

  “What was the earliest death?”

  “The first recorded one was in the late fifties. You remember the guy who built this place?”

  “Some lumber fortune heir, right?”

  “Good memory. Kenneth Franklin. He had a son—”

  “I thought this cabin passed to Franklin’s sister because he didn’t have any kids?”

  “Well, he didn’t have any when he died because he outlived his son. See, Kenneth and his son Richard used to come out here every fall to go hunting. It was a big passion of theirs. They were trophy hunters. One year the kid brings up some of his buddies, and they all get drunk in a deer stand. Richard falls off the platform and breaks his neck.”

  I cringed. “Yikes. But that’s the same way a lot of the other kids died—falling off stuff while drunk—right? Does that make Richard a victim or the perp?”

  Mark laughed. “Perp? Have you been watching a lot of cop shows or something?”

  I blushed. “Okay, I’ve been reading some mysteries lately, but my point remains the same. Richard was drunk, and his death sounds like the same old ‘misadventure’ stuff that happened later. So what makes Yuri think he’s the one doing the haunting?”

  “Well, his death was the first recorded one here, so we don’t have any earlier suspects. Yuri also did some digging into the Franklin family’s records. There were a few hazing incidents at his prep school, and Richard ended up getting kicked out after a freshman died.”

  “Oh, my God. How did the kid die?”

  “Richard made the younger boy swim in a river until the kid nearly drowned from exhaustion. The boy caught pneumonia and died a few weeks later.”

  “And he was only kicked out of school, not arrested?”

  Mark shrugged. “The Franklins were rich. From all accounts, Richard was a classic instigator, always insisting on more dangerous and humiliating ‘pranks’ than the school had ever seen before. But money talks.”

  “So what’s Yuri’s theory then?” I was getting into the mood, and my mind clicked away with possibilities. Richard Franklin’s ghost was a puzzle to be solved, a mystery to unravel. “Richard was some kind of spoiled sociopath, and he’s up to his old tricks?”

  Mark nodded. “That’s the gist of it.”

  I thought
about it. I’d known some kids like that in college. They’d gotten away with murder, so to speak. Their old habits didn’t go away as they aged. Look at Josh. He had no remorse for cheating. His only regret was getting caught. It made sense to me that even death couldn’t teach some people to be better human beings.

  A light breeze picked up, carrying the scents of pine trees and damp earth across the lake toward us. I turned my face toward the water and squinted, trying to make out the dock and the police cones that barricaded it, but I couldn’t see anything outside of our little pool of light. I looked back at Mark and shrieked.

  There was a face behind him, peering at us from the darkness.

  “Whoa, settle down. It’s just me.” Kit stepped into the light, carrying an equipment case.

  I sighed. “Sorry. Guess I’m a little jumpy.”

  “Well, try to keep it together when you’re on camera. I mean, don’t get me wrong. You being scared will make the audience scared too, but if you jump at every little thing, it’ll make it all seem hokey.”

  “Uh… I’ll do my best.”

  “Good.” She sat down on my other side and fastened a lavalier microphone to my shirt collar. I took the small black box that was attached to the mic and slipped it into my front pocket. She and Yuri had shown me how the microphone worked during my interview at the Grimshaw Public Library. If I spoke normally, it would pick me up just fine.

  She pulled out a small field sound mixer. “Say something so I can check your levels.”

  “My name is Mackenzie Clair. My favorite word is mandible, and I wish I had a sandwich right now.”

  The green lights on the mixer jumped across the display as I spoke, sometimes spiking yellow or red. Kit fiddled with the knobs and motioned for me to keep talking.

  “When I say ‘sandwich,’ I worry that you might think I want ham on rye or something like that,” I went on. “But I want to make it clear that I mean mint chocolate chip ice cream nestled between two cookies.”