The Ghosts of Mystic Springs

by Mona Marple

  “You’re troubled.”

  “It’s a troubling time.” I say. “And you don’t look too carefree either.”

  “I’m not.” He admits. “I’ve devoted my whole life to this town. My father was mayor before me, so even my childhood was spent wondering how we could make this place better, happier… we never had to worry about it being safer.”

  “I can’t believe they won’t send any police.” I admit. My stomach flips as I say the words out loud. It feels as if we’re stuck in a low budget horror film, the town isolated from help, invaded by a killer. I don’t watch horror films, but I’m pretty sure those ones never turn out too well. I should have ran out of the Town Hall and found the first plane to England.

  Atticus shrugs. “It’s the hand we’ve been dealt. We can fight it or we can solve the case ourselves.”

  I groan. “Has Sage sent you?”

  Where is Sage?

  “No, but I know she’s spoken to you. You know about the Sheriff’s investigation.”

  “I can’t help.” I say, and I stand up and walk across to the kitchen, bare feet on linoleum floor. I take a bottle of white wine from the fridge and add a small drop to a glass, then top it up with lemonade. I’m really a pathetic drinker, and I don’t want a hangover in the morning.

  When I return to the living room, Sage is pacing the room. She greets me with a nervous smile.

  “I have my first suspect.” She says.

  “You - what? Already?” I stammer.

  Sage nods and her pacing picks up speed. I take a greedy sip of my drink and remain standing, feeling myself being pulled in to something I don’t want to be involved in. It feels the way my teenage years did, when all I wanted to focus on was cute boys and learning how to straighten my hair (I gave up on both, the hair straightening before the boys), and instead I was visited too frequently by spirits.

  I was never scared when they showed up, in my bedroom usually, but whenever they weren’t there, I was terrified of the thought of them. Spirits, in my mind, were scary, unnatural and ominous. It took a while for me to realise that in truth, they’re just as they were as people, usually a little dopey, easily confused and more concerned about themselves than wanting bad for other people.

  A full year after my dead headmaster visited me, I realised that this gift - or curse - wasn’t going anywhere, and I started trying to enjoy it. But I kept it secret, knowing that anyone I told wouldn’t believe me.

  “Who is it?” Atticus asks, rubbing his white stubble thoughtfully.

  “Desiree.” Sage says.

  “What?!” I ask. “Desiree? Are you insane?”

  “Erm…” Sage stumbles over her words. “She argued with Lola. It needs checking out.”

  “Hold on.” I say, thinking back to Mariam’s words earlier that evening. “Were you listening to me talk to Mariam?”

  “Mariam’s not involved.” Atticus says, fiercely protective of his daughter.

  “I was just flitting around, I was listening to everyone. That’s my job, remember, in the Sheriff’s investigation.” Sage says, and she sticks her chest out a little with pride.

  “An argument isn’t enough to make someone a suspect.” I say, then wonder where I am getting my confidence from. “Is it?”

  “If it’s all we have to go on, we need to follow it as a lead.” Atticus says with a decisive nod.

  That’s hard to argue with, I have to admit, but I just want to slurp my lemonade-wine and then crash into my soft bed for a deep sleep. I do not want to talk about murder before bed. That’s not unreasonable, is it?

  “Guys, I’m going to leave ya’ll to it.” I say, and leave the room. There must be something unusually firm in my tone of voice because they don’t follow me. I get into my pyjamas and climb into bed, pulling the comforter over me. I set the wine on the bedside table and fall into a deep sleep with the muffled voices of the ghosts in my living room as the soundtrack in the background.

  **

  “Ugh!” I say as the bitter taste hits me. I’ve taken a swig of the lemonade-wine, forgetting that it’s not my normal glass of water - that’ll teach me for not using wine glasses. I dart across to the en suite and brush my teeth, scrubbing my tongue particularly hard, and then return to bed, where I sit up and listen to the silence of the empty house.

  I’ve always enjoyed silence, which surprises people because I’m bubbly in that way that overweight people feel they need to be to compensate for the fact we’re not a size zero. I don’t think I was a size zero when I was born. Baby photos reveal rolls of fat, puppy fat I never grew out of. While the boys at school were practically drooling over Sage, with her glossy hair and slim figure, I made them laugh with my personality. I learnt to crack crude jokes and how to perfectly time a punch line, and later I learnt how to change the oil in my car and check myself into a flight for a solo holiday, while Sage learnt how to make men fall in love with her and rescue her whenever she needed help.

  My independence might have been forced on me by the fact that no boys were throwing themselves at my feet like they were at Sage’s, but I grew to love it. I realised I could do everything, pretty much, for myself.

  And as we got older, I saw my confidence grow, while Sage lost her spark. Tied down with a husband, a house and two little mouths to feed, her sense of magic and excitement left her. Bill by bill, laundry load by laundry load, she realised that life wasn’t the grand adventure it had pretended to be. Me? I’d always expected life to be work, and not fair (try being a teenage girl with raging hormones that make you fancy every boy you see, when their only interest in you is to ask for your sister’s phone number). And I was right.

  My phone rings, and I jump a little at the incessant high-pitched tune.

  I don’t know about you, but my phone actually being used for a phone call is something of a rarity these days.

  I glance at the screen, unknown number.

  Against my better judgement, I answer. “Hello?”

  “Is that Connie Winters?” The male voice is too upbeat, too happy. It must be a sales call.

  “Yes…” I admit warily.

  “I’m calling from the Jefferson County Tribune, do you have a few moments?”

  “I guess, what’s this about? How did you get my number?”

  “Oh, a friend of yours gave it to us, said you’d want to take this call!”

  “A friend?” I repeat. I’m pretty sure none of my real friends would hand out my phone number to a newspaper I don’t read.

  “Uh-huh, that’s right ma’am.” He says, and I can picture the false smile plastered across his face to help him keep his tone light and fantastic.

  “Are you a reporter or is this about advertising space?” I ask. Every year or so I get calls from the Tribune asking me to buy space in their newspaper, and on the free wall calendar they produce for readers. I never buy.

  “Oh, I’m Anish Shah, you’ve probably heard of me.” He says.

  “I don’t think so.” I admit.

  He laughs. “Damn lady, you’re a tough cookie! You could at least pretend like everyone else does.”

  I find myself returning his laugh, happy to have got him to go off-script.

  “So, Anish-Shah-I’ve-never-heard-of, how can I help?”

  “We’re doing a story on the terrible murder and how dangerous Mystic Springs is, and I wanted to try and get a quote from Lola.”

  “Lola?” I say, my stomach churning.

  “Mm-hmm, yes ma’am, it would be a great exclusive for us. The Tribune is the oldest independent newspaper in the state, you know, and any support for us is…”

  “Lola’s dead.” I say bluntly. I’m annoyed that he hasn’t done his research before calling. Journalists are so lazy nowadays.

  “I know, ma’am, that’s why I’m ringing you.”

  My stomach flips as I realise what he means. He wants a quote from a ghost for his article. I realise how he got my number; anyone could have passed my number on if he rang them, pla
yed ignorant, asked for the medium’s number. I sigh.

  “It doesn’t work that way.” I say.

  “Okay, sure.” He lets out a nervous laugh. “I’m kinda new to the whole ghost thing, so you can educate me, how does it work?”

  “The spirits decide if they want to be contacted. They can say no to any request just like I can refuse to answer my door to a guest - or my phone to a caller.” I explain. I can recite these things without thinking about them. I warn all new clients of this, to try and control the disappointment they will feel if the person they’re trying to contact refuses them.

  “So how do I file a request to contact Lola?” Anish asks. I can’t quite work out if his tone is sincere, and visions of his newspaper running a report on me as a kooky medium flash before my mind. I don’t read that paper, but still.

  “Well, I see clients. I have a waiting list, though.” I say. I’m damn good at what I do and word has spread. I don’t need to advertise, that’s why I never buy the space in his paper.

  “I’ll pay double if you can fit me in today.” He says.

  “That’s impossible.” I say.

  “I’ll pay three times. And, listen, I like you ma’am, but you gotta understand that this story will run, with or without you. I heard some interesting things about how you’re telling people to stay in town. Are your ghost friends telling you that’s a good idea?”

  My body tenses.

  “I don’t appreciate the threat. You’ll be running this story without me.” I say, and end the call.

  I shake my head and dive back under the covers, switching my phone on to silent so nobody else can disturb me from the rare day of rest I have planned.

  7

  Sage

  It’s tomorrow, and I’m the first one in the attic, without Connie.

  I know Patton Davey told me not to bother returning without her, but I’ve got good information. Two suspects! He’ll hear my ideas and have no choice but to keep me on the investigating team. I hope.

  Don’t get me wrong, this isn’t my life calling or anything, but being a spirit can be a little dull. Just like life, I guess. A murder investigation would keep me busy. And it sounds exciting! I mean, it’s not like the murderer can kill me if I mess up, is it? Ha!

  I sense another presence in the dusty old room and look up to see Patton float in. He’s so handsome, damn it. Handsome and intimidating. I’ve always loved that combination. Well, handsome and anything really.

  “Sage.” He greets, then carefully lowers himself onto a chair. He looks tired.

  “Good morning Sheriff.” I say in my best lilting sing-song voice.

  “No Connie?” He asks, an eyebrow raised.

  “It’s early yet.” I say, although I know she isn’t coming. I haven’t even told her about the meeting, or the fact that a few of us are hiding out in her attic. “I’m early. I have a couple of leads to tell you about.”

  “Already?” He asks.

  I nod. “I got to work straightaway.”

  “That’s impressive.” He says. Patton Davey was a fair man and he’s a fair spirit and I knew, well I hoped, that if I had solid information, he’d rethink his decision that I’m only valuable if my sister’s involved. “Is there a reason you don’t want to say with Atticus here?”

  My cheeks flush as I realise he must wonder if Atticus is one of my suspects. “Oh, my, no! No! Nothing like that… I was just keen to see you. To share the information, I mean.”

  Stop talking, Sage.

  “I’d rather share the information freely amongst the group, so let’s wait for Atticus to make an appearance. He’s never usually late.” Patton says, remaining poised and professional as my cheeks burn crimson.

  “Of course. You’re the sheriff, Sheriff.”

  Seriously. Tape up your mouth and BE QUIET!

  I begin to fiddle with my long necklace, twirling each bead in turn to keep me occupied - and silent.

  The door opens after a few minutes, and in walks Atticus, followed by Connie.

  Still in her pyjamas, she looks pale and nervous. A huge mug of coffee is clasped in her hands. She searches the room for me and shoots me a look that means I’m in trouble later, but she still sits next to me so it can’t be too bad.

  “Thanks for coming.” I whisper.

  “Don’t.” She shoots back without making eye contact.

  Patton clears his throat. “Ok, thank you all. We’ll start with questions.”

  I look across from Patton towards Atticus, and then to Connie. Nobody raises their hands or makes any indication that they want to begin.

  “No questions? Let me give an overview then.” Patton says. “We’ll form a task force to investigate the murder of Lola Anti. This attic will be HQ and we’ll meet daily. Speed is everything with a murder investigation. Evidence is, literally, disappearing by the hour. The murder weapon, for example, was still with the victim when she was discovered but it’s location now is unknown.”

  “The knife’s gone missing?” I ask.

  Patton nods. “The best guess here is that the killer returned to the scene to retrieve it, but we have to be careful of guesses and assumptions. This is an investigation, we gather facts and evidence.”

  Atticus nods slowly. “We can search for the knife?”

  “We can, sir, that’s right. We do have a photograph of it. For once, people’s obsession with their smartphones has worked in our favour.”

  I gulped. “Do you mean…?”

  “Someone at the party took a photograph of Lola’s body, yes ma’am.”

  “Wow.” I whispered.

  “Now, I know we have some leads already, so I’d like to hand over to Sage to share what she has.”

  I shift in my seat. I didn’t expect to be sharing my information. I thought I’d report to Patton, he’d filter the valuable information from the irrelevant, and share it with the group in his authoratitive, adorable voice while I sat and gazed at him a little too longingly.

  “Erm, so… I don’t know if this is useful or not. But I’ve found out about two arguments Lola had before she died.”

  “That sounds like valuable information.” Patton says.

  “Thank you. The first person is Nettie Frasier. Everyone knows that her husband had an affair with Lola before his death. I actually witnessed Lola arguing with Nettie before she died. Nettie slapped her, pretty hard, around the face.”

  “Goodness.” Atticus says with a sharp intake of breath.

  “And the second person is Desiree Montag. She apparently had an argument with Lola about her not enrolling in school. I don’t know much about that one.”

  “This is good information, Sage, well done.” Patton says.

  I grin, despite myself.

  “Connie, thank you for joining us.” Patton says then. “Has Sage told you about how we see your role here?”

  Connie still won’t meet my eye. “Yes, she told me a little. I’m not happy about being here, but I can’t see that you have another choice. And the town needs us.”

  “It absolutely does, ma’am.” Patton says.

  “The town needs us to solve this case, it’s awful for our reputation. We’ll see tourism decline. Economically it’s a disaster and it gets worse every day it goes on.” Atticus says as he pushes his narrow glasses up his nose.

  Connie sighs next to me. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Nothing yet.” Patton says. “The funeral will be in a couple of days. We need to be able to watch people’s behaviour there, and then we’ll strike. Until then, keep watching, listening, and gathering information. We’ll meet back here tomorrow.”

  “Okay.” Connie says. She makes no attempt to move, and I sit next to her until Atticus and Patton have both floated away.

  “Thank you.” I whisper again, when it’s just the two of us.

  “Are you kidding me?” Connie asks with a shake of her head. “Using my attic without even asking?”

  I swallow. I knew this was coming. “I’m
sorry. Nobody felt comfortable staying in the Baker house.”

  “This is my home, Sage. I have a right to know who’s here. Don’t pull a stunt like this again.”

  “I won’t. I’m sorry.” I say. I have plenty of tools to get my way with Connie, but when she catches me doing wrong, a sincere apology is the best way to disarm her.

  She turns to me then and flashes a weak smile. Forgiven already. “This is insane.”

  “Your whole life is insane. You’re sitting with your dead sister.”

  Connie laughs and the tension eases. She lets out a deep breath.

  “Here’s something else that’s insane.” I say.

  Connie looks nervous.

  “Patton Davey thought that Atticus was one of my suspects.” I say with a laugh.

  Connie’s eyes widen. “What? That doesn’t even make sense.”

  “I know.” I say. “He obviously wasn’t thinking straight.”

  Connie shakes her head and we sit together in silence for a few moments. Connie’s lost in her thoughts, and I’m replaying the moment when Patton flattered me for my excellent work. I could get used to being complimented by him. I’m lost in a daydream of me solving the case and Patton declaring his undying love and admiration for me when Connie interrupts me.

  “Sage? Are you listening?”

  “Erm, no.” I admit. “I was miles away, sorry.”

  “I said… what if a spirit should be a suspect?” Connie says.

  Her words make me laugh. Everyone knows that spirits can’t interfere with the human realm. Sure, we can hang around in human places, and some humans can see us and communicate with us. And, yes, there are bad spirits, the ones who have a grudge against someone still, but really all they can do is scare people. A new spirit can’t even touch physical objects and plenty of spirits never learn the skill; it’s hard work and draining. Like any muscle, your ghostly connection to real world objects needs to be stretched with consistent practice.

  But a spirit hurting, never mind killing, a person? Unheard of.

  “You really are insane.” I say with an eye roll.