Firefly Rain

by Richard Dansky

  “Thank you, Father,” I said, and I walked away.

  It was well after noon by the time I’d finished Father’s journal, and the rain still hadn’t rolled in. The air had a dead quality to it, and it stuck in the lungs like cotton candy. Overhead, the sky was the sick green-gray that made the neighbors think about heading down to their root cellars. I didn’t think it was quite tornado weather, but the storm was shaping up to be a damn memorable one.

  Choosing the better part of valor, I pulled out my one working flashlight and a few candles, and stuck both them and some matches at strategic points throughout the house. Windows, the few that could be opened, were double-checked and shut tight.

  The dishes and remaining cleaning only took a few minutes, and that left me at loose ends. I considered giving Father’s book another read, but coming so soon on the heels of the first one, I didn’t think it would do much good. Better to give it time to settle, to let my subconscious work on it.

  That didn’t mean I couldn’t check out other options, though. There were all sorts of ways of dealing with ghosts, at least according to the stories I’d heard, and it was worth seeing what might work under these unusual circumstances.

  And make no mistake, it was ghosts I was sure I was dealing with—spirits and memories and the power of a place that wasn’t going to let me go. What swinging doors and moving shotguns hadn’t convinced me of, the simple click of a lightbulb had. That much, at least, had become clear.

  With that in mind, I picked up the phone and dialed the number for the church. An answering machine picked up after seven or so rings and informed me that the First Baptist Church of Maryfield was closed, but that if I left my name and number and a brief message explaining why the heck I needed to call the church in the first place, someone might get back to me sooner or later. There was a wait of about ten seconds, and then finally a beep.

  “Hello? Reverend Trotter, this is Jacob Logan. I was wondering—”

  There was a rattle and a click, the sound of the phone being picked up in a hurry. “Mr. Logan? Hello there, this is Doctor Trotter. I’m sorry—you caught me out of my office. What can I do for you?”

  I hesitated, but only for a moment. “Reverend, do you remember what we talked about before?”

  “We talked about a few things,” he said mildly. “I assume you’re talking about the notion your house is haunted, though. Am I correct?”

  “That you are,” I replied. “I actually had a kind of specific question about that. If I decided I wanted an exorcism, could you do it?”

  I could almost hear him shaking his head. “If your father, may he rest in peace, had brought you to Sunday school more than once in a blue moon, you might remember that we don’t do that sort of thing at this church. If you wanted me to come out and pray with you, well, that’s a different matter. But before I did that, I’d want you to think about why you were asking me to do it. I’m not Terminix, son, and I’d be deeply offended if you treated me like you thought I were. If you decide your faith is there and you want some help, give me a call. If you want me to spray a little Jesus in the corners to clean the place out, well, I’m afraid that’s not what I do. Does that help?”

  “It does. Thank you,” I said, and I hung up. My ears were stinging from the rebuke, in large part because that was exactly the sort of help I’d been hoping for, no strings attached. Whatever faith I had, it wasn’t going to pray Mother out of her own home. She’d probably drive me off instead.

  Thinking about Mother got me thinking about the state of the house in general, especially with company coming over. That led me to the realization that I hadn’t actually set up a bedroom for Jenna, which led to a frantic search for clean sheets and the sort of general chaos that you see a lot on television and a lot less in real life. By the time I was finished with that, the sky had gotten noticeably darker and the taste of ozone in the air was broken glass sharp. The kitchen clock read half past three, though by the looks of things a man might have sworn it was getting on sunset. I cocked my ear to listen for thunder in the distance, but I didn’t hear it. Outside, everything was still.

  Experience told me the storm would start blowing up in earnest in fifteen, maybe twenty, minutes. The smart thing to do would be to settle in with a good book, and maybe a cold beer, and wait for the weather to do its thing.

  Instead, I put Father’s book and Carl’s note on the table, and hustled myself out the door. There was someone I needed to talk to, and I didn’t think it could wait. Not now, not after what I’d seen.

  At the base of the porch steps I made a right and hurried on down to that row of pine trees. They stood there, straight and tall and suddenly very fragile against the roiling clouds behind them. I did a quick mental estimate of how tall they were versus how far they were from the house, came up with an answer I could live with, and moved on past.

  I hadn’t been out to the stones since I’d slept at their feet. Now that I was here, I could almost start to see why. By day, the headstones looked much the same as they did by night, which struck me as a bit worrisome. Consecrated gravestones ought not to be that dark by day, even a day like this one. They seemed to drink in the light around them, and they looked thirsty for more.

  Overhead, the thunder finally decided to rumble. I stood there waiting for the rain and staring down at the graves. “Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable?” I asked, not really caring if I got an answer. “If there is, do me a favor and tell me, all right? No more clanging and banging and supernatural hoodoo. It scares the ladies, Mother, and you always did want me to meet a nice girl.”

  Then, I waited. Neither Mother nor Father said anything, but the rain picked that moment to start coming down, and come down it did. I trudged back up to the house in a reasonable downpour, the raindrops thrumming against the earth and grass in a steady rhythm. I didn’t hurry. I’d be soaked by the time I got to the house anyway, so why hurry? Besides, the water was cool on my skin, and I was in no rush. Jenna wasn’t due for hours yet, and the only thing to do in the house was some combination of worry, pace, and try to figure out what the hell Father had been talking about.

  Halfway up the slope, I saw the Audi. It was rolling past the house headed in toward town, moving at a good clip. Sheets of water were already spraying up behind it as it went.

  I took a fast step forward and then caught myself. I wasn’t going to go chasing it, not this time. Instead, I just kept walking, just taking a casual look as it cruised past. It slowed as it rolled on by, long enough for me to get something of a look at the driver. The windows were fogged to hell, but there was a sense of a shape in there.

  A large shape.

  Suddenly, I found myself wondering what exactly Officer Hanratty was up to at that moment. Tearing my gaze away from the car’s retreating taillights, I forced myself to go back up the steps and into the house. Still looking out the window, I picked up the phone and dialed the Maryfield police.

  “Police,” a disinterested voice with a heavy Carolina accent said in my ear. “How can I help y’all?”

  “Is Officer Hanratty there?” I asked politely.

  “Hang on just a minute. Lemme see if she’s still here.” I heard a click as the phone hit the tabletop, and then faintly, the same man’s voice calling, “Hey, Jerry, is Hanratty still here?” There was a pause, and then, “Well, damn. Who’d have thought?”

  There was a moment’s fumbling on the other end of the line, and then the helpful officer picked back up. “Nope, she’s gone for the night.”

  “Oh, well.” I did my best to sound disappointed, and did a fair job of pulling it off proper. “Do you know when she left?”

  “’Bout an hour ago, I think. Something about a date, if’n you can believe that.” The man sounded frankly disbelieving, and I couldn’t say I blamed him. It would take a brave man to tame Officer Hanratty.

  “Well, thank you,” I said, hoping to end the conversation.

  “Can I take a message?”
<
br />   I could feel my polite demeanor starting to crack. “No, that’s all right. I’ll just call back tomorrow.”

  The officer on the other end of the line was just determined to be helpful. “She ain’t going to be in then, either. Try Sunday after church.”

  “I will,” I told him through gritted teeth. “Thank you very much. You’ve been very helpful.”

  “Not at all, sir,” he said, and hung up. I blinked and did the same. It was a hell of a change from my first call to that station, and I wondered why. Maybe I just got a different officer this time, or maybe something else had changed.

  Another mystery. I was getting kind of weary of them, truth be told. A man can only handle so many unanswered questions at a time before he decides to stop looking for answers.

  I looked at the clock. Jenna’s arrival hadn’t gotten much closer, so I made myself a sandwich. I washed it down with a cold beer, then tidied up and sat at the kitchen table to wait. Outside, the rain poured down, steady and dull. Even the thunder had settled in to a quiet rumble.

  My eyes closed on their own. Just a little nap, I thought. It’s raining out. I’d hear the dog if it came ’round. No sign of Mother for hours. Everything’s fine.

  I jerked bolt upright to the sound of fists hammering on the kitchen door. My back and neck were both wound tight in all the wrong places, so when I stood to get the door it felt like someone had run a wire down my spine and plugged it in.

  “Coming,” I shouted, and I stumbled toward the door. Faintly through the wood, I could hear Jenna. She was using her lovely voice to curse a blue streak, a series of words I did not think Mother would have approved of coming from a young lady.

  I fumbled with the latch and pulled the door open. Jenna stood there, soaking wet, with her bags in her hands and murder in her eyes.

  “About goddamned time, Logan,” she said by way of greeting, and she shook her head so that water flew everywhere. Her hair, which had hung well past her shoulders the last time I’d seen her, was now cut short, and that, along with the weariness from her travel, lent her expression a severity I hadn’t often seen in her.

  “Good to see you, too,” I said. “Want to come in?”

  “Do I want to…” She sputtered for a moment, stopped, and laughed. “No, I think I’ll stand out here and enjoy some more fine Carolina weather. Jesus, Logan, get the hell out of my way already.”

  I grinned and did just that. “Welcome to my home,” I said as she did a most unladylike stomp inside. “Can I help you with those?”

  She dropped her bags on the floor and shrugged out of her jacket. It landed with a wet slap and immediately started leaking water in all directions. “Not unless you want to toss them in the dryer. Good God, you live way out in the middle of nowhere. Another few miles and I’d be in Tennessee.”

  “You’ve got a ways to go before that, I promise,” I said, smiling. “Come here. It’s good to see you.”

  “Careful, I’m soaking,” she replied, but she gave me a soggy hug anyway. “God, it’s good to see you, too.”

  Neither of us said anything for a moment, her head resting against my shoulder. I could feel the water soaking through my shirt, but I didn’t mind. It was a fine thing to see her. Even wan from the road and pissed off, there was an energy to her that I hadn’t felt in a while, something alien to this place but which part of me recognized and responded to. It felt good.

  Finally, we broke apart and each took a step back. I looked her up and down, and she did the same to me. She spoke first, though.

  “Jesus, Logan, you’ve gone native. T-shirt, jeans, minimal work with the razor—when’s the mullet going to be done growing out?”

  “Thursday next,” I told her. “I’ll go put on some Skynyrd and you can make yourself right at home. Or”—and I paused dramatically—“I can take this stuff down to the guest room, and you can dry off and change.”

  “I thought I’d do that here instead,” she said with a wicked look. My jaw must have dropped, because she burst out laughing. “Oh, Logan. You are so adorable when you’re trying to deal with women. Don’t worry, I was just kidding, honest. Now where are you hiding me?”

  “Right this way,” I said, and I picked up her bags. They were both wheeled carry-ons, flat black and packed to the gills. Each of them weighed far more than they had any right to. “Unh. You know, you’re supposed to pack light clothes to come down here, it being hot and all.”

  “I did,” she said with a smirk. “It’s the shoes that are heavy. Now lead on, or I’ll just stand here and drip.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I started down the hall. “I can give you the grand tour later, or just point stuff out now.”

  “Don’t bother,” she said, following behind. “I’ll just poke around to find what I need. Besides, it’s not that big a house. I can probably figure out where everything is.”

  “More or less,” I admitted, though something in her tone stung. “There are a few things you might not want to figure out on your own.”

  “Like what?” she asked as I stopped at the guest room door and put her bags down.

  “Like where I’ve got the shotgun.” I opened the door. “This is your room for the duration. The bed’s comfortable, the sheets are clean, and the drawer space might be sufficient unto your needs.”

  She wriggled past me and into the room. “It’ll do,” she said after a quick scan. “Very rustic.”

  I looked around at the decoration like I was seeing it for the first time. Tan walls with a floral border up top, wooden furniture, which Father had helped his father make, a handmade quilt on the bed, and a lamp on the nightstand that had been old when I was a child. “Rustic,” I said quietly. “That’s one word for it.”

  “Relax,” she said. “It’s fine. I love it. Now scoot. I’m going to get out of these wet things, and if you wanted to watch, you had your chance in the kitchen.” She shooed me out, then seized her bags and shut the door behind her.

  I shook my head and headed back to the kitchen. It was, after all, where I kept the beer.

  Jenna joined me maybe half an hour later, dressed in a red blouse and black skirt that matched her lipstick and her hair, respectively. Outside, the evening had come down hard. We’d gone from afternoon to night without any warning, and as the rain kept hammering down, it just got darker and darker. Lightning zipped and zapped off in the distance, little flashes of light instead of the big bolts a storm like this usually sent racing across the sky.

  “Nice weather you got here,” she said dryly, pulling up a chair. “Got any more beer?”

  I hooked a thumb over my shoulder. “In the fridge.”

  She gave me a look. “You’re not going to be a Southern gentleman and get it for me?”

  “I figured you’re one of them liberated Yankee women and can get your own damn beer.” I gave her a smile to show I didn’t mean it. “Besides, you can get me another one while you’re up.”

  “There’s no football game on, you know,” she said in a tone that read Warning, but she got up and went to the refrigerator anyway. She snagged a couple of longnecks, twisted the lid off hers, and sat mine down in front of me.

  “Thank you,” I told her, and I opened it. “Sorry it’s not micro-brew.”

  Jenna shrugged and sat down. “Contrary to their marketing department’s belief, Sam Adams is not the water of life. I have been known to drink a Bud or two in my time.” To prove it, she took a long swallow and set the bottle down expertly. “So,” she said. “What the hell is going on?”

  I stared at my beer without touching it. “You want the whole thing, or just the stuff that’s happened since the last time we talked?”

  She gnawed on her lip as she thought about it. “Just the new stuff, and anything I might have missed.”

  “Okay.” I took a deep breath, let myself have one sip of beer. “The short version is that I’m pretty sure that Mother’s ghost is haunting this place. Father’s, too, though he’s a lot less obvious about it. Carl�
�s mixed up with them somehow. He’s mentioned rather prominently in Father’s journal, which I found up in the attic. So are a lot of things.”

  “Like what?” she prompted.

  “Like the fact that he left home for college. Came back a few years later with no intention of staying for more than a couple of days.”

  “Sort of like you?”

  “A lot like me,” I admitted. “Anyway, he met Mother and stayed. Moved back into the house, got married, and stayed. There’s more in there, but I’m still figuring it out.”

  Jenna nodded. “Anything else?”

  “Well, let’s see.” I started ticking things off on my fingers. “There’s a dog of some sort out there that comes by every night, and I think it’s trying to kill me. Damn near clawed through the mudroom door the other night. There’s my stolen car, which I saw driving past the house again this afternoon. There’s Officer Hanratty, who’s acting weirder and weirder. The fireflies are still acting pretty weird themselves.” I paused.

  “And the librarian you promised I could meet?” Jenna’s eyes met mine.

  “She’s about the one thing in this that isn’t screwed up,” I said, but I looked away as I did.

  “Uh-huh. We’ll tackle that later.” She drummed her fingers on the tabletop. “That’s an awful lot to be going on for little old you, don’t you think?”

  I gave a halfhearted shrug. “I guess. Like you said, I’ve been running from one thing to another so fast I haven’t really had time to try to put it all together. I mean, if I’d come home and no one had liked me because I was an outsider, fine. I could deal with that. Take stock, make plans, move on—I would have been out of their hair in a few weeks at most. But this…” I shook my head. “There’s something Carl told me that’s making a scary amount of sense right now.”

  “What is it?” she asked, patting my hand reassuringly. “I thought Carl wanted your guts on a stick.”

  “He’s warming up to me,” I admitted. “Now he occasionally calls me ‘son’ instead of ‘boy.’ It’s a big deal. But anyway, he told me that the town, or something in it, wanted me to stay, and that if I didn’t quite fit, it would, well, it would make me fit.”