by Alex Apostol
We sat down on the stools placed around the wooden island in the center of the room. Cutting into the juicy pie, I asked Mrs. Baker about her husband. She seemed relieved someone wanted to hear what her husband was like when he was alive instead of only wanting to know about his death. For two hours we laughed over old stories. I ate three pieces of pie and when I was finished my plate was stained with the red apple filling. We both stared down in silence, consumed for a moment in our own thoughts. Realizing how much time had gone by already, I mustered up the nerve to ask about Michael’s death.
“I don’t know what happened,” she admitted with genuine confusion. “I was in the kitchen preparing dinner when I heard him gasping for air. By the time I got to the living room, he was on the floor.” She lowered her head to stare back into her partially eaten slice of pie.
“I’m so sorry. Was it a heart attack?”
I hoped the painful subject wouldn’t cause her to have a break down. For weeks after Danny’s death, if anyone asked how it happened I would cry hysterically. I’d known how uncomfortable it made people, but I couldn’t help being overwhelmed by the pain of it all. But I knew that after seeing me in tears they wouldn’t pursue an explanation anymore. What was I supposed to say? Even I had no clue who’d taken my son from me at the time. And if I had told them what I’d seen, they probably would have had me locked up in an asylum.
“No. The police don’t know what happened. They said he drowned, but they couldn’t find the source.”
It became clear to me that the inconclusiveness of her husband’s death was the only thing holding Mrs. Baker together. Her brain was too busy fitting the pieces of the puzzle together to focus on the pain. I felt for her and understood what she was going through. For her sake, I hoped she never found out what had really killed her husband.
When Mrs. Baker excused herself to use the bathroom upstairs, I walked into the living room to take a look around. Her home had a definite outdoor theme to it. Wood covered every possible surface in sight and above the old box television was a giant deer head glaring down at me. I pulled a small electronic reader from my cropped leather jacket and turned it on. While I waived the device around the room, the meter remained green, never moving its needle over to the red and never making a sound. I heard Mrs. Baker coming back down the stairs and quickly shoved the device back into my pocket. I thanked her for talking with me and gave my regrets again before I left. I started to have doubts as I climbed into the truck and headed back to the hotel. I called Cara once I was in the room again.
“I’m not sure this is what we thought it was.”
I opened a bag of BBQ chips and popped them into my mouth one right after another. I told her everything Mrs. Baker and I had talked about, right down to the personal details of when her husband was alive hoping there was some hidden evidence Cara would pick up on. That was her specialty; piecing together the missing parts of the paranormal puzzle. When I found out what had killed my son, Cara had wanted to help and be a part of the hunt without actually having to leave her job. If it wasn’t for all her research, I wouldn’t be able to do my job so quickly. I’d have to spend days in the public library and online trying to find what took her hours to locate.
“Nothing you’ve told me hints to anything new,” Cara said as if far off in her own world.
She had never been wrong so far and I knew she was going through all the possibilities in her head over and over again.
“Tonight I’ll go down to the Roosevelt Lake and check it out, see if I can find anything out of the ordinary,” I interjected, trying to put her wondering at ease.
“Good idea. I’ll try to dig deeper here…contact the Kettle Falls library or something.”
I could hear the soft tapping of fingers on the keyboard as she already started to search away on her laptop. I decided to walk around the town for a bit before dinner and talk to the locals; see if they knew anything. But as nice as the people of this small town were, no one had any helpful information. Everyone’s story matched Mrs. Baker’s and everyone was equally confused. I continued to walk around while the constant drizzle dampened my hair. I stopped into a small sporting goods store and bought a navy blue windbreaker with an oversized hood. There was no way I could afford to get sick now. I headed back out into the mist fully prepared.
Night came quickly and I decided to stop in the local diner for some food. Everyone seemed to know each other and was welcoming to people traveling through their town. A younger man about my age sat across from me in my booth while I took a huge gulp of water.
“Hi, stranger. Passing through?” he asked upbeat.
He had on a heavyweight flannel shirt, steel-toed work boots, and a dirty old camo ball cap. His face was tired from a full day of work, but he managed to give me a wide grin as I introduced myself.
“Yea, just taking a road trip. My name’s Kamlyn.” I responded, holding out my hand to shake his.
“My name’s John Weston. So…are you alone?” he asked, looking around the diner for another stranger who could possibly be my companion.
I wasn’t sure if he was trying to hit on me or if he was just genuinely curious. It’d been so long since I’d had any real contact with a new person.
“I’m alone, but getting ready to head out soon.”
I took a bite of my dinner, savoring its juicy flavor. Rarely did I get the chance to sit down and eat food that wasn’t fresh off the assembly line.
“Meatloaf’s good, huh?” he asked, smiling all the while. “I live next door to this place and I eat here at least three nights a week. Can’t get enough of it.”
I lowered my gaze to the table, feeling slightly uncomfortable having a stranger watch me eat. I’d spent the last year in such isolation that I wasn’t quite sure how to act when someone wanted to talk to me. Thankfully, John was a very perceptive guy.
“Let me leave you to your meal, then.” He slid to the edge of the booth. “It was nice to meet you, Kamlyn.”
“Good to meet you too, John,” I responded, still adverting eye contact.
He stood up and walked back to his own table where he ate alone as well. From what I could tell, he seemed perfectly happy with his life even though he seemed to have no one to share it with. Who knows, maybe he had a hot date later and I was feeling sorry for nothing. I paid my tab and left the small diner without another thought of John. I walked back to the motel to pick up my truck. The walk seemed further than I had remembered now that the rain had picked up. Once I reached the parking lot, I got right into my truck to start the hunt.
As I pulled up to the lakefront, I turned off my lights. The silence after I killed the engine was deafening. I opened my door and hopped out of the cab before walking around to the back. I pulled down the tailgate and lifted up the false bed to reveal a shallow hidden compartment underneath full of weaponry. I grabbed a 9mm, loaded it with a round of iron bullets and put a red pouch full of salt in my coat pocket. Before I ventured out, I grabbed my flashlight. As brave as I liked to think I was now, I wasn’t about to wander the strange woods alone in the dark.
With the autumn leaves crunching under my feet, I headed towards the lake bridges. Everything was quiet and peaceful. There was nothing unusual from what I could see. I could hear the rain hitting the tops of the trees, but the dense greenery prevented water from ever touching me. The night was chilly and the moon shone off the water, giving the area a magical glow. I thought about the people in town and how simple their lives seemed to be. I wondered if I would ever be able to settle in one place again and live a normal life. I knew that wouldn’t be possible till I found the one who killed Danny, but I hoped once that was over I could. Maybe I would even be able to find someone as perfect for me as Rob had once been. Or maybe I’d just get a dog; a German Shepherd or a Basset Hound would do. The woods were quiet and just when I thought it might be time to head back to the truck, I heard the soft sound of a woman crying.
I walked over to the base of the bridge with
my hand at my hip, resting on my gun. Standing at the bank was a young woman. She had long, flowing black hair and beautifully bronzed skin. The temperature was only in the low fifties, but she had on nothing more than a simple brown sleeveless dress. Her feet were bare and covered in dirt. I crept over to her as she continued to stare into the lake, weeping.
“Hello?” I asked, not quite sure what the result of speaking to her would be.
I had to be ready for anything, though, and I was. She turned her head to face me, sending her long raven hair over one shoulder. I stared into her tear filled eyes. Her irises were pitch- black but her pupils shone an eerie glowing silver.
“My whole family…gone,” she whispered as a tear streamed down her cheek.
When I lifted my flashlight to shine onto her face, there was no one there. As many times as I’d had this happen to me, it always caught me off guard. I took my hand off my gun and stared at the empty space in front of me. With nothing more I could do, I turned around and went back to the truck. I guess Cara had been right all along about it being a ghost. I knew she would be thrilled to hear it.
Driving back to the motel, I saw a whirl of red and blue lights parked in front of someone’s house. I leaned over and stashed my gun under the passenger seat before pulling up to an old, run down house across the street from the ambulance and police cars. A crowd had gathered there in the driveway. My interest had been peaked. It was possible that whatever was going on here had something to do with my case.
“What happened?” I asked from my truck to no one in particular, when a familiar face stepped forward.
“Well, hello there,” John responded enthusiastically for the situation at hand.
I gave a half smile and after a moment of awkward silence his face fell with grief.
“Apparently, old man Jones drowned in his bathtub.”
He looked down at the ground and kicked around some gravel while he spoke. I told him how sorry I was, assuming Mr. Jones was someone everyone in the town knew well.
“He was like a father to me. My dad passed when I was real young and, being my dad’s best friend, old man Jones helped raise me,” John explained with a long face.
I looked into his eyes, which were full of pain, and told him again how sorry I was for his loss. Death was the hardest part of what I did. Everywhere I went, there it was. He thanked me, resting his hands on the car door where I had the window rolled down. He stared into my eyes, biting his bottom lip which was a nervous habit of mine as well. He opened his mouth to say something but decided against it. I said my goodbyes and he nodded his head, forcing a smile. I turned my truck around and continued back to the hotel. That had been a close one. I’d seen the look he had in his eyes before and I did not want to go down that road again. In my position, it would never work.
The day had seemed longer than usual even though I had gotten a late start. I changed into a t-shirt and a pair of Victoria Secret sweat pants Cara had gotten me for my birthday. They were dark blue and said ‘Pink’ across the rear end in shiny metallic letters. It wasn’t something I would have picked out for myself, but Cara had known that when she bought them. She was such a bright and cheerful person and she hated that I always dressed in monochromatic colors. It was just what I was comfortable in. I never liked being the center of attention and certainly never bought clothing that intentionally drew attention to my ass. With my job, sticking out was like painting a big red target on my forehead. Sometimes, blending in meant the difference between life and death.
I grabbed a towel and started drying my hair lazily. Somehow the mist had made its way into my hood through all the chaos, drenching my entire head. At that moment, I was glad I was low maintenance when it came to my appearance. Blow drying it and then piling on products was the last thing I wanted to do right then. I could barely keep my eyes open. I had no clue what time it was, but I knew it was late. I decided to wait to call Cara till morning. I crawled into the overly used motel bed and took two sleeping pills for a peaceful, dreamless slumber.
*
When morning came, I stretched my arms high above me and jumped out of bed. If I’d had a dream I couldn’t remember what it was, thankfully. I threw on a pair of tattered jeans I’d had since my senior year of high school, and a plain white t-shirt before venturing out to find food. Even though there were closer places to eat, I decided to return to the diner I had eaten at the night before. My stomach gave a deep growl as I pulled on my jacket. It was the only decent meal around as far as I knew and for some reason I hoped to see John again. I knew better than to get attached to anyone I met on the road, but I couldn’t help thinking about him. Every time I’d seen him, his face looked exhausted from a long day of manual labor, but underneath I saw a handsome, simple guy. It was something that intrigued me.
Unfortunately and fortunately, John never came into the diner. I ate a steaming plate of biscuits and gravy while thinking about what he had said the night before. Normally, Mr. Jones’s incident would be an open and close case of an old man having some sort of stroke and drowning in his tub. A clear cut answer was never the real answer in my line of work, though. There was definitely more to it. I shoved the last bite of biscuit into my mouth before walking up to the counter to pay.
Back at the motel, I decided it was time to call Cara. I felt guilty for having waited so long to tell her about what I’d seen the night before. If there was one thing Cara loved most, it was to hear she was right. I knew she would be able to help me figure out who the young woman was.
“Well, you were right…it’s a haunting.”
“I knew it!” she yelled into the phone, causing my reflexes to pull it away from my ear.
My hearing had been more sensitive than normal after the shrill cries of my son’s murderer. Just another reminder of what I lost and the pain it caused me.
“Why didn’t you call me last night to tell me this?”
I could tell she had been up all night trying to figure out how she could have been wrong. Her voice was elated, but knowing her so well, I could hear an entire night’s worth of stress and no sleep underneath the excitement. I told her about my encounter in the woods and the fact that we had another victim. I thought I could actually hear the gears spinning in her head as she considered all possible connections.
“Then we’re looking for a link between Mr. Baker, Mr. Jones, and a young Native American woman who died. I’ll do some research and get back to you.”
I knew her excitement wasn’t insensitivity to Mr. Jones’ death, but more of a reaction to her love of research. She hung up without waiting for a goodbye from me.
Very rarely did I have time to myself since I started this new job. Not sure what to do with the time while I waited for Cara to call back, I turned on the television and watched the latest Kate Hudson, Matthew McConahey movie. I popped a bag of popcorn into the microwave and made myself comfortable. It’d felt like forever since I was able to sit down and watch a movie all the way through. At the end, when I was about to find out if Kate and Matthew were truly meant to be together or not, my phone rang. I turned off the television and walked over to the small desk where it sat. I answered only to hear Cara jump in without saying so much as hello.
“I found some very interesting information.”
Her voice was now calm and collected. That was how I always knew the mystery was over. Instead of being excited and raring to go, Cara would be quiet and peaceful. She went on to tell me the story of our ghost woman.
“A long time ago, there was a Native American reservation in the old town of Kettle Falls, where a young woman named Adoette lived with her family and tribe,” she began, flipping through the pages of her research.
I could tell right away this was going to be a lengthy story. I settled back onto the bed and put the phone on speaker as I tried to toss bits of popcorn into the air and catch them in my mouth. When you live in cheap motels, constantly traveling, you find simple ways to amuse yourself. I caught every single piece
on the first try.
“Through the middle of the reservation ran the Columbia River, roaring with life and full of salmon and other tasty fish, which was the tribe’s main source of food. In 1940, city planners decided to build the Grand Coulee Dam, but in doing so they would flood the town of Kettle Falls.”
“But there’s still a town of Kettle Falls…” I responded in confusion.
I could practically hear Cara rolling her eyes at my naïve response. She continued as if she hadn’t heard me.
“All the citizens agreed that building the dam and moving the town closer to the railroads would be better for its up and coming industries,” she said, heaving a sigh of frustration at the end of her sentence.
I didn’t have the best common sense. Whenever I asked questions that most would know the answer to, it drove Cara crazy. She also hated when I interrupted the delivery of her research, even though she was the queen of interruption.
“The reservation, however, was dead set against the move. Building a dam would cut off their necessary supply of food and destroy their homes. Some of the younger tribe members, including Adoette, decided to travel to neighboring towns to see if they could find support to stop the building of the dam.”
I thought about the young woman I’d seen by the bridge. Her tears were starting to make sense to me now. I knew how this story ended.
“They planned their journey with enough time to return before construction began, but growing impatient, the city planners decided to start building early. The elders of the reservation stubbornly refused to leave their homes and were given two choices, stay or leave, but either way the dam would be built,” Cara read on without emotion.
To her it was just a gathering of historical facts, but to someone who had come face to face with the young woman it happened to, it was a tragedy. How could they let the Native Americans on the reservation die like that? I’d read somewhere that drowning is the worst possible way to die. The feeling of suffocation is supposed to be unbearable. I shuddered at the thought.