“Back up in these hills, before people had electricity and before many people had cars to get around in, most folks had sense enough to be in bed—or at least safely home—before it got dark.”
Melvin’s rich voice had taken on a country lilt I hadn’t heard from him before, the cadence that made a story sound authentic.
“Now days, we zip along in our cars and we have so many streetlights, even up here.” He gestured toward the lights surrounding the dance barn and visible through the trees. “We can hardly see the stars, much less what else might be around and visible only in the dark.”
“Like what?” Emma asked.
“Like ghost dogs.”
Reflected in the light, I saw Emma’s face scrunch up. She didn’t look scared, just skeptical.
“Lots of stories around here about them. Like one about a fellow heading home from a dance. A storm had blown through, keeping people inside until the wind and rain passed. He’d met a pretty girl there and he’d stayed longer than he intended. A friend offered him a bed for the night, not wanting him to head off on the hour’s walk alone.
“He waved the offer aside, said he had chores to tend to the next morning. His friends parted ways with him as they turned down the road to their houses. He had the long dark path to himself.
“A full moon was out that night, and he was thankful because it lit things up almost as bright as day. Then, without warning, the moon slid behind a thick cloud, and he knew just how much he’d had to be thankful for when it had been shining bright. He prayed the cloud would pass, but he could do no more than pray and keep walking.
“He reached a place where the path forked. One path headed into some thick woods. He had some good reasons not to take that path. One, it led past an old graveyard, left by a family or church long gone. For another, the path crossed a high, lonesome footbridge over a deep ravine. Scary enough in daylight, hard to navigate at night with no moon.
“Unfortunately the other path took the long way around the woods, adding time to his journey home.
“He hesitated, looking skyward, trying to decide if the cloud would move away. He could see no stars. He was tired, in a hurry to get home.
“He took a step toward the dark trees. It took a moment for him to believe what his eyes saw. Blocking the path, between two thick tree trunks, stood a dog, glowing white as if a light shone on him alone.
“The man gave what he hoped was a friendly click of his tongue. ‘Hey, boy. Good boy.’
“The dog bared its teeth and growled. Its eyes glowed blood-red. The growl rumbled low, as if drawn from the very pit of hell.
“The man didn’t wait around to see if the dog stepped out from the shelter of the trees. He took off running down the long path as fast as he could.
“He glanced over his shoulder only once, to make sure the dog wasn’t following, afraid to know and afraid not to.
“He saw no sign of the dog. Not once did he glance into the trees, for he feared the glowing white dog tracked him, waiting to pounce.
“He made it home in record time. The next morning, a friend stopped by his farm. ‘Wanted to make sure you got home safely,’ his friend said. ‘Heard tell the wind blew a tree across the footbridge last night. We were worried that you might have gone that way and fallen into the river below.’
“The young man thanked his friend for his concern and waved him on his way. He didn’t tell him or anyone else about the ghostly glowing dog until years later, when enough time had passed that he didn’t mind if they ribbed him about it and when he no longer shook inside whenever he thought about it.
“When he finally talked about the dog, he learned of another man, not so fortunate. One night, years earlier, he’d taken the shortcut through the woods and, not being familiar with the area and having had a bit too much white lightning to drink that evening, he tumbled into the ravine and died.
“His body was found the next day when two men approached the ravine and found a large white dog. The dog ran down the steep slope into the ravine and back up again, showing them to his master’s body.”
“Did the dog die, too?” Emma studied Melvin with that quiet contemplation I so often get from her.
I hoped he remembered she was a little kid.
“No, not until years later. One of the men took him home and took very good care of him. Years later, after the faithful dog had lived a long life, the man buried him in the graveyard with his first owner. Apparently the dog continued to guard the spot, making sure nothing happened to another man.”
“Did you know these people?”
“No. Not personally. I’m not that old.”
She stared at him.
Melvin stared back, unfazed by her intensity.
“Do you believe ghosts are real?” Emma asked Melvin.
“Good question,” he said, matter-of-fact in the face of her stoic inquiry. “Ghosts might be like other things; they’re real if we believe in them. If we don’t, they just slip away.”
Emma studied him without comment. I was glad he was smart enough not to condescend to her. She doesn’t respond to that any better than I do.
“You’d believe a ghost story if I knew the people?” he asked her. “How about this one?”
Part of me wanted to end the ghost stories. If she had nightmares, her mama would call a halt to fun outings with Aunt Bree for a while. The other part liked the gentle thrill and Melvin’s rich voice from the other end of our dark table.
“When my very own grandmother was young, she’d passed the age when most young ladies got married. Everyone in church and around kept introducing her to eligible young men, but she wasn’t having any of it. ‘He’s not the one,’ she’d say. Everyone had decided she was destined to be an old maid.
“One day, she met a man from over in Seneca. He was a bit older than she was, though not too much. When he asked to come courting, she agreed.
“The whole family was surprised by that, but she offered no explanation. A few months later, after a scandalously short courtship, she accepted his proposal of marriage. She explained to her mother that she’d started having dreams when she was quite young, dreams about a man. She said she saw him clearly, and though she couldn’t ever recall what they talked about or what happened in the dreams, she knew he was the man she would marry. When Granddaddy appeared in person, she said she knew, as soon as she laid eyes on him, that he really was the man of her dreams.”
Emma stared at him a moment. Even with her head turned in profile, I could feel the full effect of the frown.
“That’s just mushy.”
“Hm. I thought girls liked mushy.”
“Not so much,” Emma said, hopping down from the picnic table. “I liked the ghost dog better.”
She dusted off the seat of her shorts and looked at us expectantly.
The music inside had started again, so we abandoned our dark perch and made our way back into what now felt like a crowded steam bath.
Melvin asked Emma to dance. I climbed up the metal bleachers near the screened wall and sat to watch. With an apologetic plea of fatigue, I waved away a dance invitation—not a longtime regular I recognized but also not a camper. Seemed to be a lot of people in that category, people from surrounding counties. One guy told me he drove an hour from Anderson to get here every Saturday.
Melvin’s comments about ghosts slipping away if you don’t believe kept playing in my head, which brought to mind Gran and how hard she’d fought to keep her family from slipping away. Just by caring, by believing, she’d kept the investigation into Wenda’s death alive.
Love could make the difference between investigators staying hot on the trail and a case gone cold. Someone who cared enough to keep the heat on probably kept a file folder out of the cold-case bin more often than law enforcement statistics admitted.
Gran’s love had kept Wenda alive in Vince Ingum’s mind—until someone had scared her off. That struck me as the coldest cruelty, forcing her own mother to let her go, t
o let her slip away.
Gran had held on to Neanna, though, for as long as she had mortal hands to hold her, until she was no longer around to see her slip away. The thought of the orbs around me made me smile. If Gran was trying to tell me something, lead me somewhere, she was going to have to get her ectoplasmic act together.
Something about the tragedy that enveloped Neanna’s whole family made me believe in the abyss. Who was that old New England preacher who spoke of God dangling sinners over the pit of hell? That preaching tradition lived on in plenty of Primitive Baptist churches in these hills. No wonder Gran feared the abyss. She’d watched her girls dangle. She hadn’t been able to call any of them back from the edge, not her daughters Wenda and Marie, not granddaughter Neanna.
Emma charged up the bleachers to grab my hand, the music and chatter too loud for conversation. She’d found a camper her same size, one she could boss around the floor now that she was an expert clogger, so Melvin and I danced one last set.
Emma protested leaving early, but then fell asleep dangling in her seat belt before we’d driven more than a mile down the road.
Even with my melancholy ruminations about Neanna’s family, I still felt a warm wash of nostalgia as well as pinging reminders from muscles and joints that I was neither as young nor as fit as I’d been when I first learned to clog.
When we pulled into their drive, Emma’s dad Frank came out to carry her inside.
“Haven’t seen her that pooped in a while.” Lydia smiled as dad and daughter passed us on the front porch, Emma’s thick plaited hair draped over her dad’s shoulder.
“Our work here is done, then,” I said and waved good-bye.
Some nights, I wished I had somebody to carry me in from the car. Heck, I really wished I could still sleep that sleep of the dead that comes so blissfully to little kids.
Melvin dropped me off in front of our office.
“I’m meeting my brother and we’re driving out to his lake house. Going to get in some fishing tomorrow early.”
“You should’ve said something! We could’ve left earlier.”
“No, this is perfect. He wasn’t going to be able to drive out there until ten anyway.”
“Have fun. And thanks. You made Emma feel like quite the princess.”
He ducked his head in acknowledgment, looking a bit embarrassed by the compliment. I closed the truck door.
The streetlights along Main lit up the front sidewalk, highlighting my eight-foot praying angel statue with a wash of white and shadow.
The deep porch lay dark on both sides of the massive leaded-glass-and-oak door. I seldom use this door, especially at night. Small-town living had dulled some of the caution I’d brought home from living in an urban condo and apartments, so I felt nothing more than mild frustration as I fumbled to get the key in the lock.
I felt the movement to my left before I saw anything. I spun toward the movement, my dance-tired muscles suddenly charged with adrenaline, my brain searching for and discarding defensive options. No gun. Rocking chair too heavy to lift. Door too temperamental to unlock quickly. Street deserted but well lit. Run into the street.
Facing the shadow, I leapt back toward the steps, not wanting to turn my back.
“Who’s there?” The huskiness and threat in my voice surprised me. In a flash, I thought, If this is the ghosters or another stunt, I’m going to stomp the mud out of somebody.
“Don’t—” The voice—a female voice—quavered. “Please come back. Please don’t—he’ll know I’m here. He’ll kill me.”
Saturday Night
I climbed back to the top of the porch steps, keeping myself in the streetlight as if that would keep me safe.
As my eyes adjusted, I saw her. Huddled behind one of the rocking chairs, I couldn’t make out her features, her size, not even her hair color.
Her breathing was ragged. She knelt against the wall, halfway between curling up in a defensive ball and bolting in mad flight. She was scared. Very scared.
“Who? Who might see you?”
“Please don’t stand there.” She was crying. “He might drive by looking for me. He might see you. Please—”
Her voice melted into a strangled plaint.
I stepped into the porch shadow, my keys in hand. I kept my eye on her as I unlocked the door.
“Don’t turn on the light.” The strength in her voice came from fear, not command.
I pushed open the door and stepped to the side.
“You first,” I said. “Go straight ahead and sit on the stairs. No one can see you there. Hurry.”
In a crouch, her arms clutched at her waist, she darted in the doorway. I waited until she had crossed the entry hall. I wanted her far enough away that I had a fighting chance if she jumped me.
I followed her through the door and locked it, my movements fed by the adrenaline-inducing thought that an accomplice may yet lurk on the porch. Pretty elaborate ruse if they wanted to steal something, the calmer part of my brain chided me—especially given how easy it would be to smash one of the floor-length windows with one of the porch rockers and stroll right in. Except for computers, the pickings were slim, but burglars have to play the odds like everybody else.
I unlocked the French doors into my office and again stepped aside.
“Go to the right, into the back office.”
The lights from outside illuminated the front rooms of the house so that even a stranger could easily avoid bumping into furniture. With no window coverings, any interior lights would create a tableau easily viewed from Main Street and the Burger Hut lot on the opposite side of the street.
She scuttled past me, still trying to keep herself invisible. She disappeared into the dark of my office.
“Wait there. I’ll be right back.”
I heard something akin to a whimper. Part of me wanted to go comfort her, find out what caused such palpable fear. The pragmatic part of me bounded up the stairs to my apartment and, moving easily in the familiar dark, unlocked the gun safe and slipped my .38 revolver into my waistband, leaving my shirttail out to cover it. No sense being stupid.
She sat in one of the wing-back chairs in the bay window of my office. I crossed behind her to adjust the drapes on the eight-foot windows, then switched on the floor lamp beside her.
The pool of light glinted on brassy highlights tinting her hair. She looked familiar. Dark roots, a tallow complexion, a too-tight blouse stretching over her heavy breasts, and a skirt too high on heavy legs. She was the picture of somebody still partying like it was 1975. Where had I seen her before?
I could smell the acrid odor of fear, the panicked sweat that I’d only encountered in the holding cell with novice offenders. Her red-rimmed eyes were framed with smeared mascara, her breathing jagged. Her cheek was red, the skin taut, and her throat showed angry red marks.
I pulled my desk chair around and sat to face her. I still wanted to keep some distance. Until I had this figured out.
“You’ve got to help me.”
“I’m Avery.” Best to lull her with the niceties.
She took another rough breath. “Cela Newlyn.”
A battered gold cardboard box, like a treasured Christmas gift might once have arrived in, took up her whole lap. I still couldn’t place her. The courthouse? Maylene’s? No. Maybe just around, one of those faces.
“My boyfriend, he’s going to kill me.”
On their own, the words alone would have been melodramatic, even corny. Delivered with her shaky whisper, her hands trembling, the words made me look over my shoulder to make sure we weren’t visible from outside.
“Have you called the police?” Why the heck come here?
She shook her head, wincing a bit as she moved her bruised neck. “I was afraid he’d look for me there, wait for me outside. I passed your office, saw your angel outside. I remembered you.”
I cocked my head, my eyebrow raised in a question. I didn’t admit that I didn’t remember her.
“At the Pas
ture. You came in early one afternoon.”
Now I remembered. The waitress who’d been getting ready for her shift when Fran and I visited. The woman near the rear office with Lenn Edmonds.
“The guy you were with in the kitchen. He’s your boyfriend?”
Her mouth and eyes wrinkled in a frown. At first, I thought she’d had a sudden spasm of pain, but when she spoke, I knew it was a look of confusion.
“No-o. You mean Lenn. No. Gawd, no. Lenn is egotistical, but he’s a sweetheart. Too much a soft touch, you know? Lets women take advantage of him. Just my luck, never could get him to look twice at me.”
She was thawing, so I let her keep talking.
“He’s hit me before. This was different. I was really afraid he was going to kill me this time. He was—”
She started shaking uncontrollably.
I crossed to her and pulled an afghan off the ottoman beside her chair. She kept a fearful eye on my every move, but leaned forward and let me drape the wrap around her shoulders.
“Can I get you some water or something?”
She shook her head, short little jerks.
“How did you get away?” Maybe reminding her of her own strength would calm her.
“He got a call. He said he’d be right back and told me not to move. That’s when I knew.”
Her breath came in dry sobs. “I knew he kept his gun in this box. I was afraid he’d use it, before he had a chance to calm down. So I took it. I climbed out the window and ran.”
“We need to call the police.”
She shook her head, wincing openly with this more vigorous movement. “No, I got to think. I can’t think clear.”
She grabbed the box as it threatened to slide off her lap.
“Here. Let me take that for you.”
She lifted it, offering it to me without hesitation.
Despite its battered appearance, it was sturdier and heavier than I’d expected. I balanced it on my lap and lifted the lid. No gun.
Hush My Mouth Page 21