by Edie Claire
NEVER HAUNT A HISTORIAN
Copyright © 2013 by Edie Claire
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Dedication
For every reader who has ever taken the time to send me an email or a Facebook message. Your encouragement means more than I can say. Thank you so much!
Chapter 1
“Aunt Leigh,” the young voice said with as much authority as a barely thirteen-year-old boy could muster. “We have a problem.”
Leigh tried hard not to startle. Yes, she had been sound asleep. But since her visor had been pulled down over her eyes as she rocked in her “brainstorming hammock,” her cousin’s son did not necessarily know that. She was supposed to be working. She had been working. Until she fell asleep.
She lifted the visor slowly, not at all surprised to see her “nephew” Mathias flanked solidly by his little sister and Leigh’s own twins, all four of whom stood like soldiers, arms akimbo and faces serious.
The sight did not bode well.
Leigh cleared her throat and shook the cobwebs from her weary brain. “What’s that?”
“It’s Mr. Pratt,” Mathias announced. “We think that something’s happened to him.”
Leigh swung her legs out of the hammock and sat up, noticing as she did so that Archie Pratt’s wandering hound, Wiley, was once again in her backyard, cavorting with her own always-happy-to-dig-with-a friend corgi. The two dogs were behind her raspberry bushes, no doubt in pursuit of the resident ground hog.
“Because of his dog running loose?” she asked hopefully, knowing full well that the good-natured, slobbering black mutt could be found anywhere this side of Snow Creek Road at any time, whether his master was home or not. Archie didn’t believe in leash laws. Or in neutering.
“It’s not just that Wiley’s been over here more than usual,” Matthias continued. “He’s been acting weird. Like he doesn’t want to go home. We were over by the farmhouse after school yesterday, and he only went in his dog door once, and then he came right back out again.”
Leigh’s brow furrowed. She wasn’t grasping the problem yet. But she knew it was coming.
“We thought Mr. Pratt was home because his truck was there,” Leigh’s son Ethan chimed in earnestly. “But when we went over just now and rang the doorbell, he didn’t answer!”
Mathias silenced his cousin with a resentful look. Older than the others by two years and then some, he considered himself the Pack’s official spokesperson. “The truck was parked in the exact same place as yesterday, Aunt Leigh,” he continued. “But Mr. Pratt wasn’t home. And we know he hasn’t driven it because—”
His sister Lenna could not control herself. “There was this big spot of bird poop right on the driver’s side of the windshield yesterday,” the blond, blue-eyed beauty blurted excitedly, “and today it’s still there!”
Her brother glared.
“There’s more, Mom,” Leigh’s daughter Allison said quietly. Smaller than the other children by a head, the dark, diminutive Allison looked nothing like either of her parents but was the spitting image of Leigh’s father Randall. Which was fitting, as the child had been determined since toddlerhood to follow in her grandfather’s veterinary footsteps. “I don’t think Wiley’s been eating right. He threw up a bunch of cardboard and plastic earlier, and you know if Mr. Pratt was going out of town, he would have asked somebody to feed him.”
Leigh stood up. “That is odd,” she conceded. When her family had moved into their house five years ago, Archie Pratt had functioned like a one-man welcoming committee and neighborhood association. Never mind that they didn’t actually live in a neighborhood. The handful of houses that fronted Snow Creek Road between her cousin Cara’s farm and Archie Pratt’s equally nonfunctional one were a motley and utilitarian bunch, all built a half century ago with the singular goal of staying above the flood plain. Nevertheless, Archie had greeted all the newcomers with a map of the area, the names and phone numbers of all their other neighbors, two bottles of Rolling Rock, and a plastic pen from a defunct insurance company. Archie liked everybody, and everybody liked Archie.
Leigh’s relationship with the man might be casual, built on randomly occurring chats at neighbors’ homes and by the creek that ran through all their backyards, but she was certain that he would never intentionally take off and leave his dog unattended. When he traveled out of town, which he often did, he took Wiley with him.
“All right,” she agreed. “I’ll go over and check on him. Maybe he was home but didn’t hear the bell. Or maybe he’s not feeling well.”
She moved forward, and the Pack fell instantly into step behind her.
Or maybe…
A cold wave of foreboding stopped her in her tracks. “You guys stay here,” she ordered. “Offer Wiley a little bit of Chewie’s kibble; see how he takes it. But put Chewie in the house first. We don’t want a war on our hands.”
The Pack frowned in unison at the disinvite; but thankfully, didn’t argue. Leigh watched them scamper off, then looked down the valley toward Archie’s place. His farmhouse wasn’t visible from her yard. Being on the other side of the creek, around a bend, and behind a patch of woods, it wasn’t visible from any of the other houses, except maybe the O’Malleys’, which was closest to it. She decided to take the road.
Archie was perfectly fine, she was sure.
Really. She was.
A cool nip wafted on the air, warring with the late September sunshine and promising colder weather to come. Leigh’s shoulders shivered, but she kept moving. She strode past the house of her nearest neighbors, a young couple named Derrick and Nora Sullivan, and was relieved to hear no sound from within. Their baby had been colicky lately, screaming unmercifully every evening and well into the night. The sound went straight to Leigh’s marrow, taking her back to those foggy, ill-remembered days when Allison had done the same.
Passing by the Browns’ house next, she hastened her steps. Lester and Emma ran a personal care home, catering to two elderly women and a man they treated more like houseguests than patients. But the fact was, any of the five adults living there (and several of the temporary help) could carry on a two-hour conversation with a fire hydrant, and Leigh was on a mission.
The fourth house on the strip was the O’Malleys’, home to Patty, Joe, and their decidedly unpleasant offspring, Scotty. If it was hypocritical for Leigh to lecture the Pack about tolerance and acceptance while she herself avoided the little twerp at all costs, so be it. Scotty wasn’t actually the kind of kid who would pull the wings off of flies, but he was the kind of kid who liked to talk about it.
At the gravel turnoff to Archie Pratt’s house, Leigh stopped short. The door of his metal mailbox stood open slightly, with several envelopes sticking out beyond the brim. As she stepped over and pulled down the door, a fresh twinge of concern assaulted her middle. The mailbox was stuffed to overflowing.
She paused a moment, looking uncertainly down the road in either direction. Archie was hardly the type of man to ignore his mail. How long had he been gone?
After another moment’s indecision, Leigh pulled the mail out of the box and shut the door. At least if she moved this load to his porch, he could continue to get deliveries. She set off down the gravel drive and toward the small bridge spanning the creek, her steps growing increasingly hesitant.
She fail
ed to notice the figure in the water until she was within a few feet of it.
“What are you doing here?” an impudent young voice demanded.
Leigh jumped a foot.
The source of her fright chuckled with laughter. Eleven-year-old Scotty O’Malley was standing knee deep in the creek in soaked cargo shorts and a tee shirt, holding a muddy fishing net in one hand and a bucket in the other.
“I could ask you the same question,” Leigh retorted, although she did not particularly want to know the answer. According to the Pack, Scotty was an avid collector of anything that anyone else might consider “gross.”
“You looking for Mr. Pratt?” the boy demanded, his expression suddenly intent.
“I thought I would take his mail to him,” Leigh answered carefully.
Scotty’s eyes widened. He scrambled up out of the water, dropped his tools, and moved to stand beside her on the bridge, shorts dripping, bare feet and legs coated liberally with green-brown mud. He leaned in toward her and dropped his voice to a stage whisper.
“I think he’s dead.”
Leigh took a quick step back. “Scotty O’Malley!” she admonished, using her best “calm mother” tone, even as her blood ran cold. “Why on earth would you say that?”
The boy’s voice remained sober. “Because I seen his ghost!”
Leigh released a breath. Of course. The ghost thing. She’d been hearing that old song for years. The original Frog Hill Farm, whose farmhouse and remaining outbuildings Archie now owned, had been settled by a Civil War veteran who had spent the remainder of his eighty-some-odd years there. Various neighbors, including Archie himself, found this fact to be so enthralling that they encouraged oral legends about the place, including dubious tales of the founder’s heroism at Gettysburg and even more dubious tales of his ghost coming back to haunt the farm—in full Union regalia. Leigh was no expert on the supernatural, but given that she’d always heard that ghosts haunted the place where they died looking how they did when they died, the farm’s being haunted by a Civil War soldier didn’t make much sense. But it did make a better story than being haunted by a geriatric farmer in overalls.
“You mean the solider ghost?” she asked.
Scotty shook his head.
“Nuh-uh!” he answered. “That one’s got a head!”
Leigh took in a long, slow breath. Why was she letting this kid’s macabre nonsense get to her? Archie’s ghost, indeed. The man was in his early fifties and healthy as a horse. “What are you talking about?”
“I seen him last night!” the boy insisted, moving close enough to drip creek water onto the tops of Leigh’s shoes. “There are these dancing lights, you know, that come with the hauntings. Orbs, they call them. I can see them from my room! And a couple times, when I walked out here to the creek, I seen the ghost himself—the soldier one! But this one last night, it had a different kind of coat. More like a rain coat. It was tall, and all hunched over like, and headless!”
Leigh looked deep into the pale green eyes of the disturbingly genuine-sounding middle schooler, and a chill started up her spine.
She stifled it. “Mr. Pratt is not particularly tall, nor does he strike me as the type to wear a raincoat when it isn’t raining. Whatever you think you saw, I don’t believe it was a ghost, and I’m sure it wasn’t Mr. Pratt.” She gave a little shake to her handful of mail. “He’s obviously been out of town.”
Scotty’s eager expression hardened into a frown. He turned and scrambled back down into the creek with a splash. “Wouldn’t go over there if I was you,” he said offhandedly. “I’m just saying.”
Leigh felt a cold sensation and looked down. The toes of her sneakers were soaked through. “Thanks for the warning,” she said wryly. “But I think I’ll deliver his mail all the same.”
She turned and started toward the farmhouse again.
“Won’t do him no good,” she heard the boy mutter as she walked away. “Can’t read when you got no head.”
He’s making it all up, Leigh assured herself, sticking to her path. Just to make trouble. Were her own twins not constantly rolling their eyes at the boy’s various schemes and delusions? And they were younger than he was.
Archie Pratt was perfectly fine. He had probably gone out of town with a friend, and whomever he had asked to feed his dog and collect his mail had dropped the ball for some reason. A miscommunication, perhaps. It happened all the time.
Leigh turned a bend in the gravel drive and Archie’s unmistakable pickup truck came into view through the trees. As she drew closer to it her brow furrowed, as it always did when she tried to decipher the jumble of faded bumper stickers that were Archie’s message to the world. Save the Whales and Live Free or Die were posted on the upper left tailgate, slightly overlapping. Towards the right were You’ll get my gun when you pry it from my cold, dead fingers and Peace, Love, and Harmony. In the middle was a large, circular sticker with a picture of a bespectacled caterpillar, a violin, and a musket with the caption entirely (and maddeningly) worn off. The bumper itself proudly displayed, from left to right: Give us Liberty, Not Debt; Support Public Education; Drill, Baby, Drill; and We are the 99%.
Leigh shook her head and kept walking. She had heard Archie talk about a lot of things, but politics wasn’t one of them. Which was probably a good thing.
She reached the front steps of the farmhouse. She steeled herself and started climbing.
Everything around her seemed perfectly, harmlessly normal. The farmhouse was old—as old as Cara’s, having been built shortly after the turn of the twentieth century when the Harmony Railroad Line began shuttling people in and out of nearby Pittsburgh at the amazing speed of sixty miles per hour. Cara’s house had been both lovingly and meticulously restored, but Archie’s ministrations had addressed only half of that equation. He kept saying that he was “fixing up the place.” But while Archie appeared to have a wide variety of vocations, including insurance salesman, high school teacher, Civil War reenactor, and sometime e-trader—a carpenter he was not.
Leigh gasped and jumped aside as a board under her foot made a cracking sound. She saw no damage, but she stepped carefully off the beaten path the rest of the way to the door. Falling through a rotting porch onto God only knew what lay beneath was not on her agenda this afternoon.
Neither was seeing a headless ghost. She was delivering a man’s mail. That was it.
She leaned over and laid the stack of envelopes and fliers neatly on the wrought-iron bench that sat under the front window, weighting them down with the arrow from a broken weathervane whose various pieces (including the rooster) now decorated Archie’s windowsill. The porch roof was wide; the papers would be at least as safe from the elements as they had been in the stuck-open mailbox.
Leigh’s eyes came to rest on the heavy wooden front door, its once-white paint peeling in sheets. She was virtually certain that Archie was not at home—and had not been at home for several days. But she should probably check, just to be sure.
Shouldn’t she?
She punched the sorry-looking doorbell. Its casing had fallen off, leaving wires exposed, but she could hear its muffled ring from inside.
She waited exactly ten seconds. Predictably, there was no response.
“Not home!” she said aloud, attempting to sound cheerful to herself. Perhaps Archie had left in a hurry, not knowing how long he would be gone. He could have left out several days’ worth of dog food, figuring he would return before it ran out.
Her lips twisted ruefully. To the owner of a corgi, the mere thought of such a plan was preposterous. Given an infinite supply of food, her Chewie would never move again. He would simply gorge himself into oblivion. When and if he regained consciousness, he would cheerfully repeat.
No, Archie was a helpful, gregarious man with many equally helpful, dog-loving friends. He absolutely would have asked someone to care for Wiley. And he probably would have called to check up on him as well.
On impulse, Leigh’s arm reached
out. She put her hand on the metal doorknob and turned.
Her breath caught. The door was unlocked.
It creaked loudly on its hinges as she pushed it open barely an inch, then stopped. Surely Archie would lock up his house if he knew he were leaving?
“Archie?” she called uncertainly, throwing her voice through the crack. “It’s Leigh Koslow. Are you here?”
She put her ear closer. No hearty male voice answered her call. But she could definitely hear something. Professional voices, canned music.
The television was on.
“Mr. Pratt?” she called again, her voice squeaking like a child. “Are you all right?”
There was no reply.
Leigh’s heart pounded. It was no use pretending anymore. Archie Pratt couldn’t possibly have deserted his house, his truck, and his dog with no word to anyone, leaving his door unlocked and his television on. He must never have left at all.
Which meant he must still be here.
Had he injured himself somehow? Fallen down the stairs? Had a stroke? Could he be in bed with a bad case of flu?
“Mr. Pratt!” Leigh called again. Her hand on the knob shook a little.
No response. If Archie was ill, wouldn’t Wiley have stayed with him? The Pack said the dog went in his house and came right back out—that he didn’t want to be here.
Her hand pushed the door open another quarter inch, then stopped.
“Leigh Koslow!” she told herself sternly. “Get a grip on yourself. You are not cursed, do you hear me? It’s all in your mind!”
Of course. It was in her mind. And in the official files of the homicide division of the Allegheny County police department. The City of Pittsburgh’s homicide squad, too. Oh, and the state police. In law enforcement circles, the name Leigh Koslow was synonymous with one thing: bodies. It didn’t matter who or what killed them; it was Leigh who found them. Never mind that she didn’t want to, that she never even tried. Corpse echolocation was her cosmic destiny. For one happy decade while the twins were growing up, she thought she’d been given a reprieve. But this summer, it had started all over again.