by Cutter, Leah
Franklin groaned. She was going to haunt him all day at the Kroger, he just knew it.
Was she strong enough to pull down a shelf? She was stronger than most ghosts, able to click her fingernails against the kitchen table. Franklin wasn’t looking forward to finding out.
* * *
Franklin coasted his bike wearily down Main Street. The good news was that Gloria hadn’t been strong enough to knock things off shelves. She was, however, a bad influence on kids. Somehow, just being near her was enough to make the younger ones cry and the older ones pick fights. Twice today, Franklin had had to stop teenagers from throwing cabbages or potatoes or whatever was handy at each other.
The storm promised by the dark clouds and heated air hadn’t come. Wetness pressed down on Franklin as he cut across to Jacobson. He’d need another shower when he got home, though it wouldn’t matter. He felt like he was riding through one already.
To lift his spirits, Franklin rode across Jacobson and up Stewart, turning north, heading toward what he called the sculpture garden. The Sorrels were from Los Angeles, come to his small town of Katherinesville to retire. Adrianna called herself an artist, while her husband, Ray, indulged her. She filled their yard with “found art”: fallen tree branches wired together into tall, eerie men; pieces of glass collected from the highway and pasted together into stars; even plastic bags tied together and dyed, turned into colorful streamers.
Once a year, the Sorrels had a huge picnic. They invited all their neighbors and at least half the town to come and eat at their place. Tables ran the length of the yard, filled with fresh rolls, heaps of sliced ham, potato salad and coleslaw and corn on the cob and green beans and everything else neighbors brought to share, with ice cream at the end.
Gossip was that the Sorrels were some kind of Hollywood behind-the-scenes royalty. But they acted like regular folk—well, mostly—and if the gate door was open, Franklin would stop and chat for a while.
But the gate was firmly shut that afternoon. They did have a new piece hanging on the wooden fence, a strange metal cabinet with tiny plastic dolls pasted around the edges, framing it.
Was that really art? Franklin had no idea. He found beauty in his fields, in fresh growing things, in neat stacks of apples or well packed rows of carrots at the store.
And in the clean lines of kernels, after they’d been dried, ready to be popped.
Franklin headed north for a few more blocks. The houses were a mixture of old and new. Some of the buildings were colonial, made out of brick and tall, with many chimneys and clean, steep tin roofs. Some were more modern: rectangular and one story, from the ’50s, like Franklin’s. Green Kentucky bluegrass covered the yards. Despite the dry summer, purple flowering pawpaw trees bloomed overhead, brightening the day.
Just as Franklin had seen enough and was turning back toward Jacobsen, Gloria appeared, not two feet in front of him.
Though Franklin knew he couldn’t hurt her, he still automatically swerved onto the grass edging the side of the street. His tires skidded, and Franklin fell.
“Dang it!” Franklin said as he stood up, brushing off his Kroger uniform. A green and black smear went down one pants leg. He was gonna have to do laundry twice this week if this kept up.
When Franklin looked up, Gloria stood unmoving like a sign post, one hand pointing away from Jacobson, up the street, farther into the neighborhood.
With a sigh, Franklin got back on his bike and pedaled the direction Gloria indicated. She appeared again, pointing him this way and that. Where was she wanting him to get to? How long was this going to take? His stomach rumbled. Not too long, hopefully.
Finally, Gloria stopped at the end of a dead-end street, in front of two ramshackle houses, and pointed to a trail going up between them.
Franklin shook his head as he got off his bike. It was bad enough that ghosts haunted his place. He hated it when they made him trespass.
But at least the houses looked dark, the owners not home. Trash lay piled up on the front porch of the one, with blue sheets of plastic covering the windows. Broken toys lay in front of the other.
Hopefully, neither of them had a dog in their backyard.
Franklin looked up and down the street. He didn’t see anyone else there, waiting or watching. Damn it. He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and walked his bike up the trail Gloria was pointing to.
The backyards of the two houses were cleaner than the fronts. This was where the folks here lived, with lots of benches, chairs, and tables for them to gather at. They shared a long barrel smoker, and the smell of their recent BBQ made Franklin’s mouth water.
Past the yards was a fallow field, full of brambles and sharp leaved weeds. Franklin pushed his way through, not bothering to untangle vines from the wire wheels of his bike. Hopefully no one minded his trespassing. Maybe, though, this would be the last of Gloria’s haunting.
Finally, Gloria pointed Franklin toward a field.
Was this her farmer’s field? Maybe he really could help her pass this afternoon.
Plus, corn grew in this field. Franklin happily walked into it. The stalks were tall, well groomed, and healthy. He judged the crop to be a little behind his rows: Maybe the farmer hadn’t watered as much as Franklin had.
Gloria joined Franklin, marching angrily down the stalks toward a taller plant. Was there a particular place in the field that she cared about? Had something happened here?
Then Gloria stopped, holding out her hands in front of her.
Even from a few feet away, Franklin felt the wave of power that Gloria pushed out of her palms. She grew darker, less ghostly, as she pressed her will against a single ear of corn. But it wasn’t hate that drove her, no.
It was fear.
What made her so scared of that corn?
Finally, Gloria got her prize, and a single ear dropped off the stalk and onto the ground. Gloria glared at Franklin, pointed at him, then down at the ear of corn.
Despite the heat, Franklin got a cold chill up his spine. He checked over his shoulder, but he didn’t see another ghost. He scanned carefully, closely, but all he saw was more stalks of corn.
However, something else lurked there; a silent watcher. He just knew they weren’t alone. Maybe some spirit haunted these fields.
With great reluctance, Franklin walked forward and picked up the ear of corn.
As soon as Franklin touched it, he knew Gloria’s intent: She wanted him to steal this corn, steal all of this farmer’s crop.
What had that farmer done to her, that she wanted Franklin to ruin his livelihood? It must have been real bad. If she’d been alive, she would have been shaking with fear. Something about this corn and this field scared her worse than any ghosts could have.
“I’m sorry,” Franklin said, as gently as he could. “I can’t do it. I can’t steal this corn for you. You’re gonna have to find something else to help you pass on.” He’d never help a ghost to that extent. Not even if the person they was mad at had done something horrible. Gloria was just gonna have to find another way.
Gloria tipped her head back, turning her eyes up to the sky, then opening her mouth and screaming. Her face held sheer agony, like all the pinchers of hell was grabbing at her.
Franklin had never seen such a display.
Then Gloria marched over to Franklin and pushed at him, trying to get him to do her will, to leave all the stalks bare, dry, and leafless, like gravestone markers in the field.
“I can’t,” Franklin said, backing away, his skin feeling like it was being wrapped in sticky cobwebs. Gloria was strong, but no ghost was strong enough to force the living to their will.
Gloria stopped, paused, and gave a sly smile.
Suddenly, Franklin knew who owned this field: Karl Metzger, his rival for the Kentucky State Fair blue ribbon prize for growing the best popping corn. The man who had everything Franklin wanted. His old rival.
Franklin dropped the ear of corn he’d been holding, like it was suddenly hot en
ough to pop all on its own. He raced with his bike along the long row and bolted out of the field, onto the highway, then pedaled like mad back toward town.
How could Gloria think he’d be so…so…dastardly as that? It just wasn’t right.
Franklin would never do something like that, particularly not to a rival. He wanted to win that prize, wanted that blue ribbon so badly—but he’d do it on his own terms. He’d never stoop to cheating that way.
As Franklin got to his side of town, turning off the four-lane highway onto Stevens, the clouds opened up and blinded him with rain.
It didn’t matter to Franklin that he had to walk his bike the rest of the way home due to the downpour, that Mama glared at him all through dinner, that he had to use the last of Sweet Bess’ lard melted over his popcorn that night: he was content, ’cause he knew he’d done the right thing.
He also knew this was far from over.
Chapter Two
WINDS TORE AT THE HOUSE ALL NIGHT, and thunder shook the trees. Franklin stayed in the sanctuary of his room, resigned to checking the damage in the morning. Mama had always told him that fretting didn’t do no good. That night, Franklin tried to follow her advice, but his eyes kept popping open when the light flashed against his dark shade.
The next morning, clear blue sky gazed down on Franklin, washed clean from the rain the night before. Smells of wet earth and grass filled the air. Only Mama sat at the kitchen table that morning, her look less angry, more pensive.
All of Franklin’s corn stalks had survived. They’d been knocked around a bit—the ground at the foot of a few of the stalks was loose, and they leaned forward a little, like a giant hand had been pushing at them—but for the most part, they were all good. He pushed the stalks back up and stomped on the wet earth, making it hold them more firm again. He plucked up a few weeds, pulling them easily out of the wet dirt.
Quiet wind rustled the leaves. Standing in between the stalks, Franklin couldn’t see the house, or the yard—nothing but rows of corn. Peace filled him. He wished he could bottle it up and keep it with him when he needed it most, like the fireflies he’d captured as a boy, using them as nightlights for his room.
A feeling of stillness beyond the quiet of the morning told Franklin that he wasn’t alone. When he looked up, he saw Gloria standing at the end of one of the rows. With a contemptuous hand, Gloria smacked one of his ears of corn. Power rippled from her, through the stalks and Franklin’s chest.
Franklin rushed over to the ear Gloria hit. He didn’t see anything wrong with it: It was still firmly attached to the stalk, not suddenly iced over or filled with bugs or some other nightmare that only ghosts could give him.
When Franklin looked back at Gloria, she merely pointed at him, her intent clear: This was merely a warning. More damage was on the way if he didn’t help her.
Franklin gulped. “Miss Gloria, I can’t steal Karl’s crop. That wouldn’t be right. It wouldn’t be gentlemanly. There’s gotta be something else I can do, that’ll help you.” Franklin wasn’t gonna steal Karl’s corn. Karl was his competitor. He didn’t hate Karl. He envied him.
Gloria pressed her lips together tightly, but she didn’t push any more intent at Franklin.
Her disappointment was obvious, though.
She disappeared before Franklin could say much else.
But what could he have said? He wasn’t a thief.
* * *
Later that night, after dinner, Gloria appeared in the kitchen again, sitting at the table beside Mama. Franklin wondered if they talked with each other in a way he couldn’t hear, as they kept looking at each other, Mama with her hair up and her good church clothes, Gloria with her perfect blond curls, too-tight shirt, and long red nails that she kept clicking on the table.
They did seem to be in agreement about one thing: They kept glaring at Franklin, first separately, then together.
Well, maybe some more of Sweet Bess’ lard would gentle Gloria.
Franklin went down to the basement, then stepped into the root cellar for another one of his jars. The darkness of the basement never bothered him much: He’d grown up seeing ghosts, having them give him nightmares. A little darkness wasn’t ever scary after that. He liked how cool it was down there. Most of the basement had a concrete floor, but the root cellar’s floor was dirt and smelled like his fields. A steep wooden staircase took up one wall, leading up to closed shutter doors. Deep shelves lines the walls, and Franklin had some spices hanging from the ceiling, gifts from his cousin Lexine.
Only a half dozen jars of plain rendered lard remained, along with some of the snow white, rendered leaf lard from around Bess’ kidneys that he had stored in the freezer. He’d use the latter for making pies to bring to the Sorrels’ picnic later that year, as it was pure and had no scent of pork.
Franklin hadn’t planned on opening another jar so soon. He justified it to himself by telling himself that it was for Gloria. Maybe he could please her enough with that, so she’d figure out something else for him to do, instead of stealing Karl’s crop.
However, neither Gloria or Mama seemed interested in the jar when Franklin held it up to show them. After cracking it open, Franklin approached the table slowly, so as not to spook Gloria: He didn’t want her disappearing or going after his crop.
Inch by slow inch, Franklin held out the open jar for Gloria. Would she understand what he was offering?
Puzzled, Gloria sniffed at the lard, then curled her nose up at the smell of it and disappeared.
Damn it! Why didn’t she want the lard? She’d certainly been going after it earlier.
Mama moved her hand from the table for the first time since she’d started haunting Franklin.
Startled, Franklin held himself absolutely still. What was Mama about to tell him?
Slowly, Mama raised up three fingers. Intent oozed from her, like butter melting over popcorn.
There were three ghosts haunting Franklin: Mama, Gloria, and another, unnamed, unseen ghost.
And Mama was worried about her boy.
An unseen ghost haunting Franklin? That just didn’t seem right. Ghosts haunted Franklin because they needed his help. They’d been doing it since he was a boy. Mama had always told him it was his duty. And he sure hadn’t done anything to make a ghost want revenge or come after him.
Maybe the ghost was just ornery enough to haunt Franklin without wanting his help. But that still didn’t seem right. And it wouldn’t worry Mama, not that much.
What was this other ghost? And what did it really want?
* * *
On his lunch break the next day at the Kroger, Franklin hurriedly ate his sandwich and went to find Charlene, the store manager.
“Hey darlin’,” Charlene said, welcoming Franklin into the little security booth on the balcony of the store. “What can I do you for?”
The room held a half-dozen TV screens, all black and white, showing different places in the store, like the liquor coolers in the back, the two cashiers up front, and the baby and diaper aisle—they’d had a problem recently with formula going missing. Like the rest of the store, the room smelled like old wood and dust: The building was a turn-of-the-century store front, gutted and converted into a more modern store.
Franklin had never felt comfortable up there, spying on everyone. Charlene always struck him as a little too keen on security.
Charlene’s uniform was a long-sleeved white shirt with the Kroger logo over her right breast pocket, black trousers, and a utility belt that rivaled any comic book character’s. She cut her brown curly hair short and always wore what Mama called “work makeup”—just enough to make her pretty, but never enough to be noticed. Fortunately, Mama had never tried to set Franklin up with Charlene. Franklin had always assumed it wasn’t because Charlene was white, but because of her size: She was taller and wider than Franklin (who wasn’t a small man) and at least twice as strong.
“Figured I’d come and catch up on the local gossip,” Franklin said with a grin,
holding out his bribe: half a bowl of the fresh blueberries that had just come in, drowning in cream.
“You know I don’t gossip,” Charlene admonished as she took the bowl with one hand, while indicating that Franklin should sit on the other chair in her “command center.” “Thank you,” she added with a shy smile.
“Then maybe you can catch me up on the news,” Franklin said.
“Well, you know the Whittiers?” Charlene started. “They live up near the big Baptist church, off Fifth. So Jimmy—you know Jimmy, the dry cleaner—he was saying…”
Franklin nodded, letting Charlene spin her tales. The problem wasn’t ever getting Charlene talking, but getting her to stop. It was why he’d come to see her at the end of his break, not the beginning.
“So, have any bad people been killed on the highway recently?” Franklin asked when he felt he could get a word in.
“No, no, not that I could say,” Charlene said. She put the empty bowl back on the desk in front of her. “You sure are a gruesome thing, ain’t ya? Always asking about who’s dying.”
Franklin shrugged and tried to act casual. “Just an interest of mine,” he said truthfully.
“The only big news we’ve had is that some big developer, a businessman, has gone missing. He was supposed to call into his office yesterday, on Monday, and didn’t,” Charlene said.
“What do you mean, missing?” Franklin asked, wondering. A developer—that might make a hungry ghost, particularly if he was looking to buy up anything in their little sleepy town.
“You can’t say a word to anyone else,” Charlene said, leaning forward and lowering her voice. “I heard it on the scanner.”
Charlene kept a police scanner in her car, and sometimes followed Sheriff Thompson or went out to where there was trouble. Not that it was illegal, but the sheriff and his deputies didn’t like Charlene much. She insisted it was because they were threatened she’d do their jobs so much better, if only she’d gone into law enforcement instead of business.
“I promise I won’t tell a soul,” Franklin assured her.
“So this guy—Jackson, I think his name is—came here to see about building a resort.”