Chapel of Ease

by Alex Bledsoe

  I listened for any movement. I heard a scuffling in the leaves, but that was probably some harmless animal … right? And the wind above, making the tops of the trees creak … that was harmless, too. Oh boy. Despite the summer heat, I felt a real chill crawl up the backs of my arms, jump to my spine, and make its way to my neck. I’d just been touched by a real fucking ghost.

  I climbed slowly, my hands numb and my heart pounding. What the hell had just happened? Had the ghost of a character from the play really made me invisible? Was that even possible? Yet how else to explain the way the Durants walked past me, close enough to hear me breathing, and didn’t notice me?

  Then I had a terrifying thought: What if I was a ghost now, too? I stopped and took several deep breaths; ghosts didn’t breathe, so that was a good sign. I touched the nearest tree, and my hand didn’t pass through it. Another plus. Just to be sure, I pinched myself on the arm. Yep, it hurt.

  I reached the chapel clearing. Everything was the same, but there was a clarity in the moonlight that hadn’t been there before. I made out every detail in the stone, every leaf on the ground. I held up my hand, and could see every crease, every hair, every bit of newly accumulated dirt. It was exactly like the night on the porch, when I’d had my talk with Ray. And that had been a dream. Hadn’t it? Still, it was undeniably magical, and I stood very still, taking it all in.

  Then a girl emerged from the other side of the forest.

  She was young, barely a teenager, and had the black Tufa hair. Her dress was long and old-fashioned. I couldn’t hear her feet on the leaves, although I should’ve been able to. She carried what looked like a copy of the box we’d dug up, its wood new and shiny. And she was crying, her face contorted with emotion she could barely get out. If I concentrated, I could just pick up the sound, as if it were coming from a great distance instead of mere yards away.

  I knew exactly who, and what, she was. The high forehead and dark eyes from the graveyard image made of shadows and sunlight were unmistakable. I so wished Julie could be here to see this.

  “Hello?” I called tentatively. She ignored me.

  She went into the chapel, and I followed. She put the box on a window ledge, then produced a shovel from the shadows. Still sobbing, she dug in the very spot we’d excavated before. But now the dirt was undisturbed, all evidence of our excavation gone. Was this ghost dirt, then?

  “Uh … excuse me?” I said, louder than before. She still didn’t acknowledge me. I risked her name. “Byrda?”

  Behind me, a tall young man with rolled-up sleeves and suspenders stepped into the chapel. He, too, had the Tufa hair, only his was wavy and hung down past his ears. He had a slightly weak chin and a huge Adam’s apple. Was this Shad? He said something, and despite our proximity, I made out only “honey,” and “angry.”

  I focused intently to try to catch the words as Byrda responded. “Don’t tell me not to be angry! I have every right to be angry! How am I supposed to face people after what you did to me?”

  “It wasn’t that big a deal,” the boy said.

  “Maybe not to you! Maybe you do it to girls all the time! But it was a big deal to me!”

  “Honey,” he said, and started toward her.

  She raised the shovel like a weapon. “I’ll cut your damn head off with this if you try to touch me, I swear.”

  So the maybe-Shad had done something to Byrda, perhaps of a sexual nature. Is that what she meant about facing people? I felt conspicuous and awkward, but they paid me no mind. I eased closer, but their voices grew no louder.

  “You can’t just bury things, honey,” the boy said.

  “The hell I can’t! There won’t be nothing for anybody to find now! You won’t catch anybody else up here in this church, so this will stay hidden for good and forever. The only people who know about it are me, and you, and him. I ain’t gonna tell nobody, and if you do, my daddy and brothers will change your voice for you, sure enough.”

  “Honey, please,” he said, and from the back waistband of his pants, he pulled a gun. It was a big revolver, and it looked like a cannon. “I don’t wanna have to do this. Please don’t make me.”

  She froze, shovel in hand. She glared at him and said, “Ain’t nobody but you makin’ you do this.”

  “Let’s just go back home and talk about it, okay?”

  “Home? Home? What home? That house you share?”

  “Honey—”

  “Either shoot me or go to hell, Shad, I don’t care which,” she said flatly. “I really don’t.”

  They looked nothing like the actors about to play them in New York, and nothing like I expected. They were so young; Byrda had the beginnings of that hard-edged look of Ladonna Parrish and Bliss Overbay, undernourished and overworked, while Shad was all gawky knees and elbows, having not quite grown into his adult self. And, if our story was correct, he never would.

  Sure enough, the nameless ghost appeared at the door, dressed just as he had been at our earlier encounter. This time, though, he spoke. “Shad, what’re you doing?”

  Shad turned, and the gun swung with him. The nameless ghost ducked away. “Man, put that thing down!”

  Shad did, holding it against his leg. “Sorry, Dobber,” he said.

  Dobber? I repeated to myself. His name was Dobber? I wondered how super-serious actor Stanley, who played him in the show, would take that.

  “You and me need to talk,” Dobber said.

  “Oh, I think he’s done enough talking to both of us,” Byrda said bitterly.

  “I didn’t mean no harm,” Shad said.

  “Oh, really? You and Dobber were supposed to be in love, and then you come courtin’ me, all, ‘I ain’t sure,’ and, ‘I ain’t never been with a girl,’ and all that other bullshit.”

  My eyes opened wide. What was I hearing? In the play, Dobber declared his unrequited love for Shad. But here it seemed they were already a couple, and everyone knew it. Just like everyone knew about C.C.

  Then Shad raised the gun and pointed it at Dobber. He had tears in his ghostly eyes when he said, “I’m sorry, Dob. I do love you.” And he fired.

  Unlike the distant words, the gunshot was loud and immediate. I jumped, and in that same instant the ghosts disappeared, along with my extreme night vision. Yet I still smelled cordite.

  “Holy shit,” a voice said behind me.

  I spun around. A teenage boy stood holding a rifle, which he’d evidently fired at the exact same instant as Shad. He turned toward me, pointing the gun at my midsection. Already keyed up, I reacted instinctively, and in moments held the gun while he lay moaning on the ground, hands clamped between his thighs.

  “Who are you? One of the Durants?” I demanded.

  “Ow! Yes … What the hell did you do that for?”

  “You shot at me!”

  “I wasn’t shooting at you. Didn’t you see them?”

  “See who?”

  “The chapel ghosts. I mean, I’d heard of ’em, but nobody I knew ever saw ’em. I thought they were just a story to keep people away.”

  “And so your first instinct was to shoot them? Shoot at ghosts?”

  “Yeah, reckon that wasn’t too smart.”

  He moved so that the moonlight struck his face. Although the Durant genes were plain, he really was a kid, and lacked the malevolence I’d seen in his older brothers. Perhaps it would develop later, along with facial hair and a deeper voice. I offered him a hand and helped him to his feet.

  “Thanks,” he said. “Do you know where Billy and Winslow are?”

  “They went thataway.”

  “Can I have my gun back?”

  “How do I know you won’t shoot me?”

  “Because I didn’t when I had the chance.”

  “Your brothers want to.”

  “Yeah, well, they’re assholes. They want to shoot me sometimes, too. I was out here to tell ’em Junior wants ’em to come home. We got a fire to put out.” He extended his hand. “I’m Logan.”

  “Matt.”


  “You must be the Yankee fa … I mean, the Yankee who beat up my brothers.”

  “Yeah. It was self-defense.”

  “I ain’t doubtin’ you. That’s why Junior sent me to fetch ’em, so they won’t get beat up again.”

  I wondered if this was the same Junior who’d tried to interrogate me outside the convenience store. I imagined there were a lot of “Junior’s” around here.

  I gave him back his gun. “You better go find them, then, before they hurt themselves or someone else.”

  He looked out at the woods. “Sure wish I’d brought a flashlight.”

  “Sure wish I hadn’t dropped mine.”

  “And … I’d appreciate it if you didn’t say nothing about seeing me. I’m the youngest, so I already get picked on a lot.”

  “They’ll never hear it from me.”

  He smiled. “Thanks.”

  He went off in the direction I’d indicated. Truthfully, I had no idea if that was the right way. I took a moment and oriented myself, then headed into the woods toward what I sure hoped was C.C.’s truck. I concentrated on movement, avoiding low branches and tangling vines. I tried not to dwell on what I’d seen or learned. After all, the real secret was waiting for me in that bag, right? What the ghosts had shown me was mere context, mere prelude.

  After what seemed like hours, I reached the truck. None of its lights were on, and I didn’t hear the engine running. I hid behind a tree, watching. Someone sat behind the wheel, but I wasn’t sure if it was C.C. It could’ve been a Durant, with his brothers crouched down in the bed.

  I threw a small stick. It struck the front near a headlight and bounced harmlessly off. The door opened, and by the dome light I saw that it was, in fact, C.C. “Matt?” he whisper-called, one of the guns held ready. “Is that you?”

  “It’s me,” I said as I rushed over to the vehicle.

  As I climbed in, he said, “I was starting to get worried.”

  “I got worried twenty minutes ago,” I said truthfully.

  “I heard a shot.”

  “It wasn’t at me.”

  When we were out on the road and headed home, I said, “Have you heard from your friend Doyle?”

  “No,” he said tightly. “I haven’t.”

  “Should we try to find him?”

  “We’d be driving right into a herd of Durants with a bonfire handy. I’d just as soon not.”

  I touched my face and realized my cheek was numb where splinters from that first shot had sprayed into it. I felt the tiny ends protruding from my skin. The visor had a mirror with lights on either side, and I saw that a half-dozen shards stuck into me.

  “You all right?” C.C. asked.

  “I’ve got some splinters.”

  “I’ll pick ’em out when we get back to the Parrishes’.” He squeezed my hand, all it was safe to do as he drove.

  The bag with the box sat on the seat between us. I wanted to pick it up, to feel the weight of whatever we’d found, the tangible proof that there was an answer to What is buried in the chapel of ease? But instead I flashed back to the spectral trio’s near-pantomime I’d witnessed, and wondered if this act of desecration had been the reason for their appearance this night.

  27

  When we got to the Parrish farm, the porch light was on and Thorn waited on the swing. As we came into the light, she saw my face and said, “Good God, what happened to you?”

  “Oh yeah. It’s nothing.”

  “It looks like you ran across a herd of little bitty Van Helsings who thought your cheek was Dracula.”

  The absurdity of that image made me laugh. I leaned against the nearest porch post and felt my legs begin to wobble with exhaustion.

  “Shh, Mom and Dad are sleeping,” Thorn said.

  “Has Doyle Collins come by here?” C.C. asked.

  “No.” As C.C. turned to look back toward the road, she saw the bag over his shoulder. “What’s in there?”

  C.C. took the box from the bag. In the light from the porch, it looked even older and more worn, the wood faded to gray and the lock a sculpture made of pure rust.

  “Is that it?” she asked softly.

  “That’s what we found, yeah,” C.C. said. “We don’t know what it is yet.”

  The two of them exchanged a look; then she said, “Let’s go inside and find out, then.”

  “I can’t,” C.C. said. “I have to go look for Doyle.”

  “I’ll go with you,” I said.

  “No,” he said sharply. Then his expression softened, and he touched my cheek. “You stay here, so I know you’re safe.”

  I started to protest, but the simple affection and worry in the statement cut me off.

  “Find out what’s in here,” he added, and handed me the box. The weight of the thing surprised me, but at that moment, I was more concerned with C.C. I looked up into his eyes and said, “Be careful.”

  “I will. Take pictures for me, okay?”

  “Okay.” He got back in his truck and roared off, leaving Thorn and me on the porch.

  “I hope Doyle’s okay,” I said.

  “Me, too,” Thorn said. “He’s been C.C.’s only real friend for a while. He used to fight bullies with him in school, so C.C. never had to stand alone.” Then her attention went back to the box. “So that’s what all the fuss is about.”

  I looked at the box again. Its antiquity made it seem sad, somehow. “It’s what we found.”

  “You really have no idea what’s in it?”

  “Nope. We didn’t open it.”

  “Why not?”

  “There were … complications.”

  “Durants?”

  “Yeah. And…”

  “What?”

  “Haints.”

  She put her hands to her mouth to stifle a giggle.

  “What?” I said, tired and annoyed.

  “It’s your accent.”

  “Oh, I have the accent?”

  “You do here.” She looked closely at the box. “I reckon we won’t learn much more by staring at this, will we?”

  “Reckon not.”

  She giggled. “You’re doing it again.”

  “Oh, shut up. Wait until you hear how people pick on you in New York. Where can we look at this?”

  “If you can be quiet, come on into the kitchen.”

  We went inside, and Thorn spread newspaper on the table before we set down the dirty box. She turned on the light over the table, and I finally saw it clearly.

  The box’s corners dovetailed together, and the rusted heads of tiny nails were flush with the wooden surface. The top had two big hinges, and a latch closed with the small, ancient, rusted padlock.

  I flicked the padlock with my fingertip. “How do we get that off?” I asked,

  “Rub its G-spot,” Thorn deadpanned.

  “Ha.”

  “Step aside.”

  She took the lock in her hand and twisted it slowly. When it wedged against the latch, she turned it harder, and one end of the shank popped free. She removed the lock and placed it beside the box on the paper. “That might’ve been worth something,” she said sadly.

  “The lock?”

  “Yeah. People love anything that might be from the Civil War. Reenactors come all over themselves for stuff like this.”

  “Maybe you can fix it and sell it.”

  “Are you kidding? I can’t stand reenactors. They think if the war had gone the other way, the world would be perfect.”

  Now nothing stopped us from opening it. We stood silently, the crickets outside providing the background chorus. Ladonna or Gerald snored softly behind their bedroom door in counterpoint. At last I said, “Well…”

  “It’s what you came for.”

  “Yeah, but…”

  “You’re kidding me. Second thoughts?”

  I saw the sad face of Byrda’s ghost in my mind’s eye. “I’m just not sure, all of a sudden.”

  Thorn snickered. “Yeah, that figures. All men are afraid of
commitment, even the gay ones. Well, I’ll leave you and your box to talk it over. I’ll be on the porch if you want me.”

  “Wait, you’re not curious?”

  “Oh, sure, I’m curious. But I’ll find out later. I’ll leave the moment of discovery for you.”

  She closed the screen door softly behind her, leaving me speechless. I quietly pulled out a chair and sat down, then rested my chin on my folded arms and stared at the box. There was a slight gap under the lid; it would take nothing to reach over and lift it, exposing the secret that Ray had wanted so badly to keep.

  As if cued by my thoughts, Ray said, “Well? What’s stopping you?”

  It says a lot that in four days, the presence of the ghost of a friend no longer made me want to run screaming from the room. I didn’t look at him as I replied, “I’m not sure, man. Maybe it’s you.”

  “Me? All I am is dust in the wind. Isn’t that what ol’ Miss Azure said?”

  “She said you were just pretending to be Ray.”

  “Well, there you go. If she’s right, what you do makes no difference to me now.”

  I touched the side of the box reverently, with just my fingertips. “Is this really what you were talking about? The secret of the chapel?”

  “You mean, is that what I was writing about?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It is.”

  “And you know what’s inside it?”

  “I said I did.”

  “Yeah, but do you? Like you also said, all that mattered was getting the show onstage. You would’ve said anything to make that happen.”

  “Touché, man. You got me there. But in this case, I really do know what’s in there.”

  “How? The ground didn’t look like anyone had dug it up recently.”

  “Maybe I did it years ago.”

  “Why are you being so fucking enigmatic?”

  “I’m a haint, it’s what we do.”

  This made me turn and look at him. He was as solid as Thorn had been, still dressed in his denim jacket, his black hair tied back in that disarrayed ponytail. His skin was paler than I remembered, but hey, he was a ghost. He crossed his arms and smiled, thoroughly delighted by my discomfort.

  “You’re enjoying this,” I said.

  “I’m having a little fun, yeah. But like I said, it’s not about me. It’s about you.”