Strange Ghosts

by Scott William Carter

  "That? Sure, five bucks."

  Stevens checked his wallet. "I have three dollars and a lottery ticket."

  "Sold."

  They pulled the easel out, tested the stand, and brushed off the dust. When Stevens had gathered it under his arm, he turned to the man.

  "So your mother, she was an artist?" he asked.

  The man shook his head. "Not that I'm aware of. I don't know how she came by that old thing. She must have bought it after Dad died. Funny, losing both my Mom and Dad in less than year."

  Stevens didn't think it was funny. "Well," he began, but he could think of nothing to say.

  The man nodded. "You?"

  "Eh?"

  "An artist?"

  "Oh no," Stevens said, "not really. Thought I might try it, you know."

  "Sure. Hey, you want to know something funny? The word easel, it comes from German. It means donkey. I learned that studying German in college. I was just thinking, it's like a donkey. It has four legs. It bears a burden on its back." He nodded as if he had said something quite sage. "I never went to Germany."

  They stood like this for a moment. Stevens felt a drizzle begin to fall.

  "It's raining," Stevens said.

  "So it is."

  "I must be going."

  "Sure. Well, good luck then."

  They shook hands. Stevens glanced back once when he reached the end of the street. The young man stood just under the overhang of the garage, staring into the mist, his face full of gloom, like a child waiting for a break in the storm so he might play again. Stevens hurried home.

  He put the easel in the spare bedroom, pushing the empty crib out of the way so he might position the easel next to the window. He would have to sell the crib, he knew. It was silly to keep it now.

  He wiped the water off the easel with a rag. The setting sun shined low through the window and revealed groves in the board, as if someone had drawn too heavily, almost fiercely, for many years and had produced these deep abrasions. Still, it would be serviceable. He found a folding chair to put behind it and borrowed an extra lamp from the living room so the board might be properly illuminated. He had not drawn since high school, a good ten years. He dug up a box of drawing pencils and an unused sketchpad which an aunt, knowing of his one-time hobby, had sent him on his birthday a few years past. He set these on the easel.

  For several days, then, he did nothing it. He went about his business going to work and doing house chores. When he passed the bedroom containing his new possession, he would stare at it and remind himself that he should do some sketches one of these nights, then promptly forgot all about it. It seemed to require too much of his depleted mental reserves to do anything creative. It was a feat for Stevens to simply rise out of bed each morning, to get dressed, to make breakfast, to get in his car and go to a job that no longer held any meaning.

  But one evening, when he was in a particularly dour mood and a fierce storm prevented him from finding solace in an evening walk, he sat at the easel and opened his sketchpad. His doodling was amateurish, his skills rusty, but the process of putting pencil to paper allowed him to focus on something besides himself. It did not make him happy—this elusive emotion was too great a leap for Stevens—but it did give him a momentary reprieve. What he felt was more akin to what an athlete feels after a five mile run—exhaustion, tranquility, peace of mind, centeredness. He did not experience the passing of time. When at last he could draw no more because his back ached and his fingers throbbed, he slumped into bed at two in the morning and slept better than he had slept in two years.

  He was hooked.

  He spent his evenings engrossed in his drawings. He filled dozens of sketchpads and peppered the walls with his work. He drew whatever caught his fancy—plants and horses and motorcycles and birds and fire-breathing dragons. At first, he avoided drawing his wife, but then he sketched a woman, any woman, but she seemed to resemble her, so he went ahead and made it her and he found that he liked it. So he drew her many times, in all conceivable poses, naked and clothed, all from memory.

  Each rendition of her, at least in his own mind, was perfect. Each rendition captured the pale hue of her coconut skin, the gentle curls of her flaxen hair, the shyness evident in her half-closed eyelids. Her visage was seared onto the backs of his eyelids so when he slept, she appeared. When he blinked, he saw her. It was easy recreating her on the page—he need only close his eyes—and he filled every scrap of paper with her likeness.

  Late one night, he ran out of paper. Still feeling the urge to draw her, he used the backs of envelopes, but then these too were gone. His thumb and forefinger ached from griping the pencils too tightly; he felt a tightness in his lower back. He had to continue blinking to keep his vision clear, and it was then, with the easel empty, and his eyes strained, that he noticed a pattern in the groves on the board. He hadn't noticed it before, for it had always been covered with paper, but if he squinted at it with half-closed eyes, he could make out the shape of a woman.

  It was his wife.

  He drew directly on the board and sketched in the missing details. It was the best portrait he had done so far. The grooves on the board seemed as if they had been designed with his wife in mind. He drew until he could keep his eyes open no longer, until he slumped over the board, exhausted, and slept.

  He was jolted awake by a ringing phone.

  He'd been in a state of peaceful reverie, the state one can reach only when all is quiet and the body is in its deepest of sleeps. The phone made him spring from his chair, fists clenched and heart hammering. When he realized it was the phone, he dashed to living room and snatched up the receiver.

  "What?" he said. "What now?"

  There was no answer. Faintly in the background there was a rustling, like tree branches swaying in the wind.

  "It's two in the morning," he said. "Who are you?"

  For a moment, nothing—then a whisper: "J-J-J-Jawww . . ."

  Stevens swallowed. "Who is this?"

  "J-J-J-Jawwww . . . sh . . ."

  "Speak up, I can't hear you."

  "Josh . . ."

  It was then that Stevens realized two things simultaneously—that the word the other person was speaking was his first name, and that the other person's voice, however faint, was one that he would recognize even in a whisper.

  "B-B-Beth?"

  "Josh . . ."

  "Where are you?"

  "Where you left me."

  He shivered. "In the cemetery?"

  "Josh . . ."

  "Yes?"

  "There isn't much time. You must—"

  "Yes?"

  "—come."

  "When? Now?"

  Silence.

  "Beth?"

  Nothing.

  "Beth?"

  There was a click. Stevens listened to the dull buzz of the dial tone for a long time before putting the phone back in its cradle. He was still in that half-waking state and he wondered if he had imagined the phone call. He told himself it was a prank. He told himself to go to bed and forget it. He was being delusional, he knew. Best to pretend it had never happened.

  And yet, try as he might, he could not shake the feeling that she was waiting for him. He decided to follow his impulse. What could it hurt? The fresh air would do him good. He threw on his coat and headed out the door.

  The moon was full, the streets deserted, the air cool and crisp. There was no breeze. Not a branch stirred.

  The cemetery where he'd buried his wife was in a grove of Douglas firs on the outskirts of the city. Ignoring the sign stating that the park was closed at dusk, he turned onto the gravel drive, tires crunching, and parked in the empty lot. When he got out of his car, a slight breeze picked up, making the trees sway back and forth like shamans moving in rhythm to their own incantations.

  Next to a bench there was a pay phone, but no one was in it. He walked quickly, then running, across the grass toward his wife's grave. A streetlight here and there guide his path with a dull yellow g
low. He felt the wetness of the grass soaking through his shoes.

  He slowed as he approached her gravestone, glancing from side to side, searching for her, or anyone, among the silent stone sentries. He was alone. The gravestone, a simple granite rectangle, was as he remembered. The flowers he had left two weeks before were gone, undoubtedly removed by the groundskeeper. He touched his wife's name, tracing along the grooves with his fingers. There was a space below hers where his name would one day be chiseled.

  He heard the crackle of someone stepping on a dry leaf.

  He turned and there she was, only a few paces away, dressed in the white gown she had worn in the casket. He expected her form to be transparent but she seemed as solid and as real as anyone. She rubbed her swollen belly and smiled sadly.

  "Josh," she said.

  He started to move toward her, but she held up a hand.

  "You can't touch me," she said.

  "But why?"

  "I'm sorry."

  "But I want . . . Beth, please."

  "It can't be."

  "But—"

  "Shh. Don't argue. It's part of the way. If you touch me, then you'll be with me. I can't have that. Not yet."

  He understood. "The baby," he said, motioning toward her belly.

  "She's here too," she said.

  "A she? I have a daughter?"

  "She says hello."

  "Hello," Stevens said.

  "She kicked."

  Stevens felt his throat tighten. He understood what had happened to the old lady now, the one who had owned the easel before. The urge to touch, it was almost irresistible.

  "It's not fair," he said.

  "No."

  "You died in your sleep. Blood vessel burst, they said. A freak accident. Nothing could be done."

  "I know."

  "My child . . ."

  "Yes."

  Beth stepped closer and he felt his pulse quicken.

  "What are you doing?" he asked.

  "Move closer," she said.

  "But I thought you said—"

  "We can't touch, no. But we can get closer—if you promise me you won't touch."

  Stevens felt his hand twitch, but he clamped it against his thigh. "I won't."

  She stepped closer, now toe to toe, grass blades apart. She leaned forward. Her lips were close enough to kiss.

  "Beth . . ."

  "Close your eyes."

  He did. He felt the tickle of the wind on his cheeks. He imagined it was her warm breath.

  "Josh . . ." she said, whispering into his ear.

  "Yes?"

  "Promise me—"

  "Yes?"

  "—you'll get rid of—"

  "What?"

  "—the easel."

  He nodded.

  "It's time to move on," she said.

  "I know."

  "Put this behind you."

  "Yes . . . Beth?"

  "Yes?"

  "I want to tell you something."

  "I know, Josh."

  He opened his eyes. She was gone.

  * * * * *

  The downpour lessened to a drizzle by late afternoon. The sun pierced through the black clouds, brightening the inside of his garage. Stevens saw the young man in the trench coat round the corner and stop at the foot of his driveway.

  "You having a sale?"

  Stevens nodded and put down his coffee, motioned for the young man to come inside. The young man walked up the drive and stepped into the garage. His face was so smooth, Stevens noticed. He was probably not even twenty.

  "Not many people come out on a day like this," the young man said.

  "Not many," Stevens agreed.

  "I'm not really looking for anything, though. Just thought I'd have a look-see."

  "Sure."

  You have some nice stuff."

  "Most of it belonged to my wife. She was a neat lady."

  "Oh."

  Stevens waited for the young man to ask about his wife, but he didn't.

  "How much for the crib?" the young man asked.

  "That? It's never been used. Five bucks."

  "And this? What's this here in the corner?"

  "A drawing easel."

  The young man pulled it out and tested the legs. "It looks like it's in good shape."

  "I put some work into it, fixed it up."

  "The board feels so smooth."

  "Doesn't it though? I sanded it down and varnished it. There's not a groove in it."

  "That must have taken some time."

  "It was worth it. I'll tell you what, you can have them both for ten bucks."

  The young man pulled out his wallet.

  Stone Creek Station

  While cleaning out my office, I pulled the old Rand McNally atlas off the shelf and the book fell open to the two-page spread of the United States. I closed my eyes and made a blind stab at the map; when I looked down at the book, my finger had fallen in the middle of Oregon. The problem was that when I lifted my finger, there wasn't a town there, just a mountain range and some lakes.

  Still, I was determined to follow my method, so I turned to Oregon in the atlas, and located on the more detailed map the spot where my finger had fallen. There were a couple of small towns in the area, but one caught my eye: Stone Creek.

  It was impulsive. It was insane. It wasn't anything like me at all—always deliberate, always cautious. But that was the point. If you're serious about starting over, you can't trust yourself to make a clean break. I could never stay in Denver, not on the heels of a failed marriage, and every place I thought to start over reminded me of Anne. Didn't we have a cousin who lived in Palm Springs? And Everett — that was near Seattle, where we went with her parents on that cruise up to Alaska . . . I needed something fresh, something new, and the only way to get it was to give myself over to lady luck. For once in my life.

  Two weeks later, I was coaxing a ten year-old Honda Civic up through the Cascade Mountains, my possessions distilled to a box of books in the trunk and two suitcases in the backseat. The last round of budget cuts at the university had finally forced me to do what I should have done when the ink was still drying on the divorce papers, but I wouldn't miss the job. Teaching aspiring journalists had been a way to pay the rent, nothing more. After weaving my way along the main highway for an hour, tall pines lining both sides, I came upon the hand-carved wooden sign that read, "Welcome to Stone Creek." By then, the sky had melted to black and a full moon rose over the trees.

  I passed a Ma and Pa grocery store, a post office, a gas station with a single pump, and a garage with a sign above it that read, "Bob's Auto Repair," except that only half the letters were visible because the sign was coated with rust. All of these places were closed. There was also a diner called the Wooden Spoon, and by the light shining through the closed blinds, and the dozen dirty pick-ups and SUVs in the parking lot, I assumed it was open.

  On my way to the door, I shivered and stuffed my hands in my leather jacket. With the blinds down, there was no way to see inside, but I heard a man talking loudly. I reached to open it and saw the sign there had been turned to "Closed."

  I hesitated, then shrugged and turned the knob anyway.

  When I stepped inside, the bell over the door ringing, a dozen old men turned to look at me. The decoupage tables had been pushed to the edges of the room, leaving an empty space in the middle of the black and white tiled floor where chairs had been arranged in a circle. One of the men, a thin fellow with vanilla-colored hair and a stooped posture, was standing; the others were all in their seats. In their faded jeans and wrinkled plaid shirts, they had the look of ranchers or hunters, a few wearing cowboy hats. They were all white and old, between seventy and eighty I guessed, faces and hands wrinkled and liver-spotted.

  A radio played faintly from the kitchen. Sinatra, it sounded like. The room smelled faintly of cooking grease. They looked at me as if I had just walked in naked.

  "Can I help you, son?" the one who was standing asked.

&
nbsp; "Um, yes," I said. "I'm looking for . . ."

  This was when I noticed that two of them had shotguns on their laps.

  "Yes?" the one who was standing prodded.

  "Um, for Graber Inn," I said.

  The one who was standing looked at a guy three to his right, a small, white-hair man who shifted in his seat. He had a long, pinched face, a tuft of white hair on his chin, his glasses tinted. He wore a tan vest over a white shirt, a square bulge in his front pocket that must have been cigarettes. He wasn't one of the ones with a shotgun—shotguns I was carefully watching to see if they moved from their owners' laps.

  "I'm John Graber," he said, his voice soft and crackling like a radio tuned to a weak signal.

  "Are you the owner?"

  He nodded. "We're closed, though."

  "Permanently?"

  "Just for the weekend. Renovations. Been scheduled for months. You didn't call ahead?"

  "No," I said, laughing, unnerved at how everyone was staring at me. "Is there anywhere else I can stay?"

  Graber frowned and looked at the man who was standing.

  "Most of the town's closed for the weekend, son," the man who was standing said. "Best to head back to the highway."

  "Oh," I said. "Well, see, I really want to stay in Stone Creek."

  "Why?"

  I knew I should have gotten out of there, but the more they wanted me to leave, the more I wanted to stay. Looking back, I'm not sure why I was so determined to start with Stone Creek, except that it was something to grasp onto when nothing else in my life seemed worth grasping. "I'm . . . a travel writer," I said, "and I'm doing a story on small towns."

  "Not much here worth writing about," Graber said.

  I laughed. "My editor says differently."