World Tree Girl

by Kerry Schafer

  World Tree Girl

  Kerry Schafer

  Copyright

  Diversion Books

  A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008

  New York, NY 10016

  www.DiversionBooks.com

  Copyright © 2017 by Kerry Schafer

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For more information, email info@diversionbooks.com

  First Diversion Books edition August 2017

  ISBN: 978-1-68230-815-8

  Also by Kerry Schafer

  The Shadow Valley Manor Series

  Dead Before Dying

  The Between Series

  Between

  Wakeworld

  The Nothing

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Connect with Diversion Books

  To my Grandpa George, who taught me that age is no barrier to new adventures.

  Chapter One

  In the uncharted territory along the boundary of life and death, time has no meaning. Souls cross, or don’t cross, without consideration for humanity’s ticking clocks.

  Sophronia has been sitting in this unforgiving chair for hours, waiting. The knobs of her spine feel bruised, and her lower back aches. She shifts her weight, leaning forward and easing from her right hip to her left, careful not to jostle the small, sun-browned hand clasped in hers.

  The child’s eyelids flutter and he peers up at her, his pupils enormous, his eyes glazed by opiates and sleep.

  His chin sets in a scowl. “I don’t want to go. You can’t make me.”

  “I’ll wait,” she says, very gently. He is terribly young. Sometimes she gets impatient with the old ones when they cling and refuse to let go. They’ve had all the time in the world to do what they were sent here to do, and as far as she can see, there’s no reason for them to hang around. But even those who are bedridden and senile sometimes hold on well past the time they should be moving on.

  This child is only six and has all the reasons in the world to linger. His parents, who are at home sleeping, love him deeply. Reminders of their attentiveness are everywhere in this otherwise sterile room. Stuffed animals. Picture books. A notebook loaded with games. Music. DVDs.

  If they knew that this was his last night, no power on Earth would keep them from his bedside. She suspects they will spend the rest of their lives feeling guilty that they left him alone, even though they’ve gone home firmly believing that he’s getting better and will be coming home tomorrow. Even though they are exhausted.

  Even the nurses aren’t worried about him. They check his vital signs every four hours, and Sophronia hasn’t been here that long. If someone comes in and finds her, there will be questions, but she hopes to be gone before then.

  To her eyes the boy looks healthy enough. He’s had minor surgery, nothing that should kill him, but she knows it’s his time, all the same. The call began as it always does, as an uneasiness deep in her belly, something like hunger, growing in intensity and need until it drove her here. She knows, as deeply as she ever knows anything, that she is in the right place at the right time. But this is her first crossing with a child. He is so young, so beautiful, so unfinished. It’s not like he’s bald from chemo, or wheezing from pneumonia, and she can’t help wondering if maybe she was wrong about this one.

  His eyelids drift closed and she watches him dream, the eyeballs beneath the thin lids darting side to side. His breath hitches from time to time, and his head moves on the pillow. His hair darkens with sweat. And then his eyes fly open, wide and frightened. His hand tightens on hers. She can feel the pressure of each thin finger digging into her skin.

  “Easy,” she whispers. “I’ve got you.”

  His rib cage expands as he tries to suck in all the oxygen in the room, enough to feed his body through what he senses is coming. There is a short pause. And then all the breath empties out of him in a slow, deep sigh as he trusts his soul into her keeping. It is a gift and a responsibility, one that tracks tears down her cheeks even as she carries him all the way to the crossing, and releases him into what lies beyond.

  He will be fine, she tells herself, although she always wonders. She’s not allowed to look, to know what comes next. She’s always trusted that what she does is right and necessary, but how can she be sure? There are too many mysteries. Souls cross without assistance every day. She’s not present for every death in Shadow Valley, and while there are a few unquiet spirits hanging around, there aren’t all that many.

  Task completed, she opens her eyes to the world of hard-edged realities. A tiny body lies empty on the white bed, the chest no longer rising and falling, the eyes closed. Her own body is cramped and bruised, and the exhaustion is so overwhelming she’s tempted to lie down on the bed beside the child and go to sleep.

  But things will be bad enough without being found here with the dead. If someone sees her here, there will be talk again, whispers behind her back.

  Witch.

  Ghoul.

  Soul stealer.

  Time to go, before somebody looks in. She needs to eat something and make her body move, to ground herself in feeling human before this other part of her carries her away.

  Chapter Two

  Miracle Road is aptly named.

  It’s a miracle that anybody actually lives out here and a greater miracle that an ordinary vehicle can navigate what passes for a road. There is no shoulder, no ditch, only an unbroken wall of trees marking the boundary between road and not-road. I cling to the door handle, rattling around like a shotgun shell in an ammo can as the state-issued pickup truck bounces and lurches through ruts and potholes.

  Sheriff Jake Callahan, both hands tethered to the steering wheel, long legs grounding him to the floorboards, is too intent on driving to be generous with details. So far, all I know is that an individual named Dason Williams, male, age twenty-four, was found unexpectedly dead. No details, other than that the reporting party who called 911 was hysterical and female.

  I’m hoping for a murder. If we’re really lucky, the killer will be hanging around looking for trouble. It’s been over a month since I’ve seen any action, and I’m itching for a target in need of killing.

  Technically, of course, I’m a civilian and not allowed to shoot anybody. I’m only here because Jake said he needed backup and none of his deputies were available. It’s a flimsy excuse and I’m suspicious that he’s merely taken pity on my boredom. We both know that the FBI badge I still carry is
no longer valid. The Paranormal Unit I spent forty years of my life working for has no use for a woman of my age, especially one who knows too many secrets and can no longer be trusted to keep them.

  Badge or no badge, I’m good with both guns and investigations. It’s not the first time Jake’s brought me in, unofficially, to help with a case. So far they’ve all been dry and ordinary, but I’m always optimistic that we’ll catch a weird one.

  The ruts and mud holes give way to a steep, one-lane dirt trail, so narrow that branches screech against the sides of the truck as we crawl upward. When we level out and emerge into a clearing, a view of the valley is spoiled by old cars and junk. A battered Ford pickup, so thoroughly rusted I can see daylight from one side of the bed to the other, is parked beside an old but serviceable Jeep Liberty.

  The ground is hard packed dirt, but weeds have persevered, healthier and hardier than the half-dead geraniums in a cracked plastic planter. In the middle of the yard stands what might once have been a nice little house, long neglected. The paint is peeling. The roof is patched with different colors of tin. One of the windows has plywood nailed over it. A black and white mutt of a dog lies on the porch, muzzle resting on his paws, not bothering to even prick his ears at us.

  “Motive isn’t likely to be robbery,” I say.

  “You’d be surprised what people hide in a place like this.” Jake gets out of the truck and slams his door. I follow, noting the cement-like quality of the packed earth. We won’t be casting tire tracks to help us find a suspect. It would take a military tank to leave any kind of impression.

  We are the first responders on site, which is the way I like it. Everything still raw and untouched, nobody else messing up the scene or pre-loading witnesses with ideas about what happened.

  The dog stirs, barks once in a half-hearted sort of way, then comes loping over to check us out. His tongue lolls out and his tail is wagging, so I figure he’s not going to bite. Jake pats him on the head and he trails at our heels as we approach the house.

  It’s Jake’s crime scene and I’m not here in any official capacity, so I let him take the lead. He hands me a camera, and I snap a few quick pictures of the exterior. The vehicles, with their license plates. The dirt yard. The front door and the closed windows.

  When I’m done, I nod at him and he steps up on the porch. I draw my gun as he knocks. He’d object if he weren’t focused in the other direction, but you never know who—or what—is waiting behind a closed door.

  Footsteps approach.

  The door opens.

  A wall of stench hits me from three paces back, hard enough to stagger me. Jake’s hand goes to cover his nose, but I don’t bother. You can’t mouth-breathe away a stink like that, it registers on your tongue, coats your throat. I can taste grease, garlic, and something putrefied I don’t want to name. I breathe in again, deeper and on purpose this time, analyzing the various odors.

  Definitely a whiff of dead body, but it’s competing with dog crap, trash, old food, cigarette smoke, and sour laundry.

  All of these make an interesting backdrop for the woman who stands waiting in the doorway.

  She looks like she’s walked out of a casting call for stiff, starched church lady of older generation. A beige turtle-necked sweater and tweed skirt cover her from chin to mid-calf. Her gray hair is cut short and styled in a frizzy perm. Her eyes are clear and bright with curiosity and a little touch of something that looks like excitement. When she speaks, her voice is distinctive, low for a woman, reedlike.

  “You were quick. Thank you so much for coming right over.”

  “Are you the caller?” Jake sounds nasal and a little choked.

  “Good gracious, no. That was Geneva who called. The boy’s mother.” One hand reaches up to pat her perfect hair. “Terrible, isn’t it?”

  Jake stands there, waiting.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m Mrs. Hemsley. The pastor’s wife. I couldn’t believe it when Geneva called to tell me, and of course I came right over.”

  “I imagine it’s quite a shock for you.”

  Her hand goes to her heart. “Lord have mercy, yes. Geneva’s just—well, losing a child, you know? Especially this way. Shot himself in the head, can you believe it? God have mercy on his soul. It’s Dason who’s dead, with a D, you know, as in dog. Not Jason. I do wish parents would just name their kids normally, don’t you? So confusing for everybody. But listen to me, nattering along. What can I do?”

  “Direct us to the body, if you would,” Jake says.

  “Oh, yes. Of course. I’m just so disturbed I can’t think straight at all.”

  We follow her down a hallway narrowed by boxes of empty beer bottles stacked on top of each other on one side, old newspapers on the other. I feel like a cow in a branding chute. If somebody stood in the door behind us to take a shot, we’d have no room to duck or maneuver. I look back over my shoulder. The door has been left open, presumably for ventilation purposes, and all I see is a rectangle of hard packed dirt crowned by a strip of blue sky.

  A few more steps lead us into what passes for a living area. The carpet is buried under bits of paper, candy wrappers, and plates of stale food. A pile of something brown that looks suspiciously like dog turds lurks under a coffee table.

  Jake wades in, undeterred, and I follow, straight toward the woman who sits huddled on the couch, cradling a cigarette in a shaking hand.

  Her hair is greasy and strings around her face in unpleasant wisps. The couch she sits on is black with dirt and matted with pet hair. She glances up as we walk in, then returns her gaze to nothing.

  “Did you call this in, ma’am?” Jake asks.

  She looks up at him, eyes wide and dry. “He’s just sitting there,” she says, her voice flat and expressionless. “Like he’s working on his computer. I took him a cup of coffee and some cookies. But he didn’t turn around. Wouldn’t answer me. Something wrong with the boy…”

  Mrs. Hemsley, to give her credit, sits down on that filthy couch and puts her arm around the woman’s shoulders.

  “Now, Geneva dear, you know he can’t answer you. He’s dead.”

  “Doesn’t get much more wrong than that,” the woman says. She tries to take another drag of the smoking cigarette, but her hands are shaking so hard she can’t get it to her mouth. Her face contorts, the corners of her lips pulling down, her eyes creasing almost shut, and I brace myself for tears. But then the spasm passes; she draws a deep breath and resumes smoking.

  “He’s tired,” she says. “Been working way too hard. That boss of his, she’s a slave driver. I’ve no use for a woman like that. She should stay home with her own kids, not be driving other people’s boys to the brink of exhaustion.”

  Mrs. Hemsley looks up at us and shrugs. “You see how it is,” she says.

  “I’ll be wanting to talk to his boss.” Jake pulls out his notepad and pen again, but the woman just stares off into space.

  “He works in Spokane,” Mrs. Hemsley volunteers. “Just came home for a few days off. He does that. Comes home to help out.”

  I use my pocket camera to snap a few shots of the room. The clutter on the floor. The women side by side on the couch. I can’t imagine what sort of help the young man in question has provided; it looks like the house has been burying itself in debris for years.

  “Takes time, after a shock,” Jake answers. “Maybe we’ll just go—have a word with the boy. Dason, you said?”

  “He’s a good boy,” Geneva murmurs. “Don’t ever let nobody tell you different.”

  “I’m sure. Where is he?”

  Geneva doesn’t answer, drifting off into space again. I can’t tell if she’s high, or drunk, or merely in a state of shock.

  “Down in the basement,” Mrs. Hemsley says. “Stairs go down off the kitchen. I’d show you, but I really don’t want to see that sight again.”

  “That’s fine. You stay here with his mother. See if you can get her to drink some water, will you? That will help allay the shock.”
>
  The stairs have death trap written all over them. One lone bulb dangles from its wires to light a steep wooden staircase. Boxes are stacked on both sides, thick with dust. A damp smell of mildew and rot is overpowered by the stench of decay. There are no railings, and unstable stacks of boxes prevent me from holding on to the wall for support.

  My bad leg doesn’t like stairs at the best of times. If I fall, I’m going down like a human bowling ball and taking Jake out with me. My skin prickles as I put my foot on the fifth step. I know this feeling all too well. We’ve got a ghost. Can’t tell if it’s Dason’s or something older, but it puts me on high alert. Usually, the spooks are harmless, but some have enough rage to do damage. In this case it wouldn’t take much—just a box shifting enough to trip me, and down I’ll go.

  Jake stops at the bottom of the stairs, flashlight on. He’s got the blue filter that will show up blood or fluids or flare bright on areas where bleach has been applied. By the smell, I’m pretty sure there’s no history of bleach in this basement, but he starts exploring. Cobwebs cling to my face, and I get my own flashlight out and shine it around.

  Dust. Mouse turds. Piles of boxes, once stacked neatly, now toppled, spewing their contents out onto the floor.

  The door to Dason’s room marks the threshold of a whole new world order. Unlike the rest of the house, it is not only clean, it’s organized.

  Everything has a place, and everything is in its place. Star Wars action figures line shelves constructed from bricks and boards. The narrow bed is neatly made, spread with a comforter that features R2-D2 and C-3P0.

  Jake stands motionless. His gaze is fixed not on the body slumped over the desk, but at the posters covering every inch of the walls. Dason’s interest didn’t run to flowers or fruit baskets.

  “Maybe we should check the freezer for body parts,” I say, spinning around for the panoramic view.

  Jake doesn’t answer, just steps forward to see better. I join him, moving from picture to picture, not sure what to make of what I’m seeing. Dead bodies at car crashes. Bodies naked on autopsy tables. Bodies splayed open with their organs exposed. On first glance it looks like crude voyeurism at best, but I don’t find the images alarming or disturbing. The photographer has managed, by some stroke of genius, to capture a certain beauty even in the ugliest of deaths.