EQMM, February 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

  As I drew closer to the Chicken's victims, I noticed another pile in a darkened corner beyond them—a heap of a good two dozen hats, with my brother's white Stetson up top like the snowcap on a mountain.

  Then I saw the swollen purple bump on Gustav's forehead. Those headaches weren't brought on by laudanum alone.

  I spun around just as the little crimp staggered to his feet and started toward me with his blackjack raised high.

  "Thank you, friend,” I said. “Now I don't have to feel bad about this."

  "This” being a swift kick to the unmentionables followed by a roundhouse that flattened the man's nose and blew out his candle.

  I left the crimp lying in Old Red's spot atop the stack of soon-to-be sailors. I wasn't happy about leaving those other fellows to the Chicken's not-so-tender mercies, but even so large a man as me can only manage so much dead weight at once, and acts of charity would only get us shanghaied all over again ... or worse.

  I toted Gustav home draped over my back, something that surely would've aroused a touch of curiosity just about anywhere else. This being the Barbary Coast, though, all I got was the occasional wisecrack along the lines of “Good thing one of you can handle his liquor!” By the time we were back in our room at the Cowboy's Rest, Old Red was starting to stir.

  "You all right, Brother?” I asked once I had him stretched out on our bed.

  Gustav's eyelids fluttered, then went wide. He pushed himself up to a sit, one hand pressed to his head.

  "What the h are we doin’ here?” he groaned.

  That's right: “What the h are we doin’ here?” Not “Thank you, Brother.” Not “How'd you find me?” Not “I owe you my eternal gratitude and will never give you guff again so long as I shall live."

  "What are we doin'?” I said. “Well, you are sittin’ up when you should be lyin’ down. And me, I'm thinkin’ I liked you better unconscious."

  Old Red waved a limp hand at the war bags we kept piled up in the corner.

  "Best get those packed up quick. We gotta go."

  I started to ask “Why?” but didn't even make it through the “Wh—"

  "Oh,” I said. And I set to packing.

  Not five minutes later, I was helping Gustav hobble down the stairs. Our clomping drew Cowboy Mag from her barroom.

  "How about a little hair of the dog, boys?” she asked, friendly as can be—until she noticed the bags I was dragging behind us. Lickety-split, her smile spun around into a frown.

  "Ain't no dog done my brother like this. It was a Chicken ... and a snake,” I said. “Speakin’ of which, I been tryin’ to remember—how'd you say you got your nickname again?"

  Cowboy Mag planted herself before the door. With her plump arms and legs akimbo, she made quite a formidable roadblock.

  "Don't think you're leavin’ without settlin’ up with me first."

  "We wouldn't dream of it,” Old Red said, his voice still hoarse and trembly. He gave me a pat on the back. “Brother, would you mind?"

  "Certainly not."

  And I propped him up against the wall, put down our bags, and truly settled accounts with ol’ Mag.

  Now, for the record, let me state that I have never struck a lady, and I never will.

  Let me add, however, one obvious and important fact: Cowboy Mag was no lady.

  —

  With best wishes of (and hopes for) publishing success,

  O. A. Amlingmeyer

  —

  The Cosmopolitan House (Hotel)

  Oakland, Calif.

  August 8, 1893

  Copyright (c) 2007 Steve Hockensmith

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Fiction: THE GRAY LADY by David A. Knadler

  David Knadler grew up in rural Montana and is a career journalist who has worked for several daily newspapers including the Kansas City Star and the Philadelphia Inquirer. Now a resident of Wichita, Kansas, he's working on a novel featuring the reluctant lawman-hero of this new story, John Ennis. This is the author's fifth story for EQMM, and Ennis has featured in all of them.

  "She was staring at us and we ran,” the girl said. “Then I came back to look through the window and she was gone."

  Deputy Sheriff John Ennis wanted these kids gone, too. He had a long list of things to do this afternoon, including a talk at the high school for which he was ill prepared. He cleared his throat.

  "So: You two entered a private residence. You saw someone at the stairs. You bugged out without so much as a hello—possibly because you'd been caught breaking and entering. Then you decided to peep through the window, but this time couldn't see anybody."

  The girl, Laurel Hogue, shook her head firmly. “We weren't breaking and entering. The house is vacant. We're only telling you about it because this old guy next-door saw us and said he was calling the cops. We weren't doing anything wrong. And this has happened before. Last year, when I was a sophomore. Josh and I wanted to investigate."

  "You've broken in before?"

  "I told you, it wasn't locked. That house, it's empty a lot of the time. It has a reputation. Last Halloween, my sister Heather and some friends, they were talking about the Gray Lady and snuck over there one night. They all swore they saw her!"

  "Who's the Gray Lady?"

  Now the boy, Josh Randa, spoke up. He had trouble making eye contact. “Some of the kids think she's a ghost. They talk about it sometimes. I always thought it was B.S., but now..."

  "A ghost,” Ennis said. He smiled.

  Laurel's face reddened. It wasn't embarrassment.

  "You think we grew up on too many Scooby-Doo reruns, right? Just stupid kids. Well, this isn't funny. I saw something. It was scary; there was this feeling about it, very cold and...” She saw Ennis scanning the ceiling and stood abruptly. “Oh God, just forget it. Come on, Josh. I think we're cutting into the deputy's donut break."

  Josh got to his feet with an apologetic little smile. “Well, uh, thanks."

  "Oh, right,” Laurel said. “Thanks for nothing."

  Ennis, who was not on break and didn't like donuts, watched them go: the tentative slacker in the baggy pants, the goth girl with her short red hair and shorter skirt. He remembered himself at that age and slightly regretted that he'd taken such a dismissive tone. He didn't mind a good ghost story, really. It probably wouldn't have hurt to play along just a little.

  * * * *

  Larry Swan, who taught English and creative writing at Kootenai County High School, laughed when Ennis mentioned his interview with the two students.

  "Of course I've heard of her,” he said. “Every year I get a dreadful story or two about the Gray Lady. The last involved a spectral chainsaw."

  They were standing in the high-school parking lot. Ennis had been asked to speak to the faculty about recognizing drug use among students. It had not gone particularly well. After hearing him drone on for 45 minutes, most of the teachers looked as if they themselves had been abusing barbiturates. Swan found that amusing too.

  "By the way, next time I have trouble sleeping at night, I'll know who to call. You should work some levity into your routine."

  Ennis didn't mention that his carefully crafted laugh lines had sunk without a ripple in the vast silence of the faculty lounge. The important thing was, the ordeal was over.

  "Thanks for the tip. About those kids, I was probably a little short with them. I thought they were pulling my chain."

  Swan unlocked his convertible. “Ah, John, your Philadelphia cynicism is boundless. Of course, it's possible they were pulling your chain, this close to Halloween. But I know those two. I'm sure they meant no harm."

  "The house has a ‘reputation,’ huh? I guess every town has one."

  "Yes, it seems to fill some primal need, doesn't it? Where life lacks darkness and mystery, we must create it. But to give the kids credit, the place does have at least a slight whiff of ... something. Beyond being merely vacant. I understand there was a suicide at some point.” He shrugged. “Even small tragedies can gro
w into legends, given time. All it takes is a bit of the unknown. And a fair amount of retelling."

  "What's the unknown part?"

  Swan gave him a long-suffering look. “If I knew, it wouldn't be unknown, would it?” He tossed his briefcase on the passenger seat and got in the car. “One of my students mentioned something about it. Last year. I think she had done some research for a short story...” He brightened. “You know, I think it was the same girl you spoke with today: Laurel Hogue."

  "Ah."

  "Again with the cynicism. Weren't you ever young, John?"

  * * * *

  The house at 221 Linda looked more cursed than haunted: cursed by a crappy location and years of neglectful tenants. It was hard by the Montana Rail Link tracks and definitely on the wrong side of them. The weedy lawn was long dead; the misshapen little pine by the mailbox soon would be. Beside it, the sign for Shining Mountains Realty creaked and swayed in the October wind.

  Not exactly Hill House, Ennis thought. Outwardly, it resembled every other place in this little neighborhood known as the Belker Addition: single level, disintegrating carport, clapboard siding in dreary beige. All this one lacked was a couple of junk cars out front. Why had the kids of Worland decided this would be the haunted one? There were no deserted Gothic mansions in the area, but still...

  Well, he'd been mildly curious to see it. If a place had a “reputation,” however unearned, sooner or later it would probably figure in some youth activity involving the use of illicit substances. Ennis sighed. And when it did, Worland's stalwart defender against that sort of thing—that would be him—would have the lay of the land.

  Down the rutted street, a maroon Honda Accord was approaching, slowly maneuvering through a minefield of potholes. It stopped opposite him. He began to pull out, but the thin blond woman driving caught his eye and waved both hands. She wore a nervous smile as both their windows slid down.

  "Hi! Say, could I ask you a really big favor?"

  Ennis looked at his watch. “Sure."

  "I need to run in here a minute? I was just wondering if, well, if you'd mind waiting while I do? I promise it'll be quick."

  He got out of the Blazer and waited for the woman to hurry across the street. Behind her, the Accord beeped and its lights flashed. People in Worland liked to say it was the kind of town where you didn't have to lock your car, but a lot of people seemed to anyway.

  "This is so nice of you. I'm Libby. Libby Howell?” She extended a manicured hand. The wind gusted and Ennis grabbed for his hat; her lacquered hair was unaffected. He caught the scent of perfume and hair spray, both liberally applied. “I'm with Shining Mountains? I know this is strange, but since you're here I'd just feel better if...” Her voice trailed off as she looked over Ennis's shoulder. “I don't know, I just get an odd feeling being in there by myself."

  He followed her gaze. Out here in the cold the house seemed even drearier than it had from the car. Libby Howell must be new to the agency, he thought, to be the one stuck trying to move listings like this.

  "I just need to do a quick check on a couple of things,” she said. “Would you like to come in and look? As long as you're here? You know, the seller is very motivated on this one."

  Ennis was about to demur, but he caught a slight note of desperation in her voice.

  "Okay, just for a minute."

  He followed her up the crumbling walk and waited while she fumbled with a ring of keys. The lock box resisted her initial efforts and she muttered a curse. When it finally yielded, she took the keys and inserted one in the battered doorknob. Before she could turn it, the door slipped open on its own. She blinked and swore again.

  "This is the third time,” she said. “I keep locking it and I keep finding it unlocked. See, it's things like that."

  "Probably just needs to be adjusted."

  She gave him a dubious smile. “Yes, I'm sure that's it. I guess I'll have to get it looked at. The owner is out of state. Every time his tenants move out, he fixes it up and tries to sell it."

  He followed her inside. The door opened directly onto a square of gray linoleum surrounded by new tan carpet: he guessed this was the living room. The place was freezing. The chemical scent of the carpet and fresh paint couldn't quite mask the aroma of vacancy dust in dead air, coagulated drains, old cigarette smoke, perhaps the dark blush of mold in some unseen corner. Ennis, never particularly ebullient, felt a sudden decline in his mood. Like a cheap motel room, the place seemed to radiate hopelessness.

  Libby Howell only wrinkled her nose. “I should probably leave a window open or something, but then you worry about the pipes. And vandals."

  "Has that been a problem?"

  "No, not really. Not yet. The last time I came here the door was wide open, but nobody had been in, that I could tell."

  Ennis decided not to tell her about the two students and their paranormal investigations.

  "I just have to check the thermostat.” She walked across the living room, her high-heeled boots leaving sharp imprints in the new carpet. Ennis noted other faint depressions, veering toward the basement stairs and stopping in the middle of the room.

  Libby peered at the thermostat and gave an exasperated sigh.

  "Look! I set it at fifty-five degrees, to keep the pipes from freezing, but it's so cold in here! That's just weird!"

  Her breath was visible as she spoke. She was right—it was nowhere near 55 degrees. Libby clutched her arms around her thin leather coat. “God, this house. I guess I should check the furnace?"

  She looked toward the basement stairs but made no move toward them. Ennis understood that she was waiting for a gallant gesture.

  "Would you like me to have a look?"

  "Would you? That would be super."

  The basement was smaller than he expected. Someone had made a half-hearted attempt at finishing what might optimistically be called the family room, a windowless space about 12 feet by 16. On the far wall, some major flaws in the Sheetrock were plainly visible beneath the fresh coat of beige paint. The room was lit by a cheap fluorescent fixture that flickered intermittently. Some family room, Ennis thought. He had seen homier parking garages.

  "Partial basement,” Libby said. “That's another drawback. The rest of the houses in the neighborhood have full basements; I don't know what the builder could have been thinking. The furnace is in here."

  A door off the family room stood open. The furnace burners were lit; the loud fan exhaled lukewarm air into the room. Ever chivalrous, Ennis checked the filters. They seemed fine too. He looked at the realtor and shrugged.

  He was glad to get outside in the cold air. Libby Howell pulled the door shut and insisted Ennis try the lock. It seemed secure. She smiled and touched his sleeve as he got into the Blazer.

  "Thanks so much. You must think I'm just a worrywart. I don't know what it is about that place."

  Ennis didn't know either. But he didn't think she'd be selling it soon.

  * * * *

  Ennis contemplated the clutch of black-clad girls smoking cigarettes outside Ray's Bistro, across from the high school. He was thinking of his own high-school days, the time when such girls might smile when he passed them in the hall, or sat next to them in class, or asked them to dance. Now, of course, middle age had made him a different species—perhaps a different genus. He might as well be a house plant for all the smiles he'd get now.

  Among the girls was Laurel Hogue. She chanced to look his way, then frowned and leaned past a girlfriend to look again. He waved her over. The other girls laughed as she warily crossed the street. Ennis ran the window down.

  "I had a look at your haunted house,” he said.

  She had done her small mouth in lipstick that was almost black. She took a careless drag of her cigarette and looked away, radiating boredom. She was quite pretty, even if Ennis wasn't sure about the little silver ring she wore in one nostril.

  "How brave. Did you go inside?"

  "Yes. With the realtor. I'm thinking of buy
ing it."

  This got her attention. He smiled.

  "Kidding. I wanted to see if you guys did any damage."

  "I told you, the door was open."

  "So it was. But I'd recommend you not try another expedition. If that neighbor gets around to reporting it, I might have to do something about it."

  "Whatever. You think we made it up, don't you?"

  "Did you?"

  She tossed her cigarette away and brushed hair from her eyes.

  "I saw her."

  "The Gray Lady."

  "Look. Officer. Sheriff. What do they call you anyway? You can think what you want. This isn't something I made up to amuse you, or the idiots in this school. That house is haunted. And I know why."

  "A teacher of yours mentioned something about a suicide."

  "You mean Mr. Swan? Yes, there was a suicide.” She leaned closer. “But I think there was something else: I think there was also a murder."

  She was looking him in the eye when she said it. She didn't smile and she didn't blink. Now she had his attention.

  * * * *

  The girl agreed to speak to him after school at Cafe Sunshine, which was across the street from the Town Hall. Ennis told her to bring Josh along—it was a small town, and there was no point in inciting gossip by being seen having coffee alone with an underage girl.

  Josh clearly didn't want to be there, but Ennis had the feeling the kid was going to be doing her bidding as long as she kept him around. Laurel slid in next to her boyfriend. She produced a pack of Marlboros and lit one, ignoring the signs and the waitress's concerned look.

  "So, what do you want to know?"

  "You mentioned a murder,” Ennis said.

  Laurel took a deep drag and exhaled theatrically. “I don't have any proof, if that's what you want. Most of what I know about it comes from my mom. But it's true. It has to be."

  "Okay, let's hear it."

  "First I want to show you this.” She took a weathered high-school yearbook from her bag and slid it across the table: Worland Wolves, class of ‘74. She opened it at a bookmark and pointed to a picture halfway down the page.