by Angie Fox
“No luck?” I asked.
“Denied,” he said, resigned.
“Do you think it’s them or the place?” I asked.
“I don’t think it’s the cemetery itself.” We’d stopped short of the parking lot, and he glanced out over the empty space. “When I first got here, I worried it could be contagious, but whatever it is, I’m fine.”
“I sent my friend Frankie to talk to some of them. So far, he hasn’t made much headway, either.”
“I would have bugged out a long time ago, except that Jorie was so attached to my grave.” Ray glanced back at it. “Being there makes me feel closer to her. But the rest of this place has been unsettling to say the least.”
He gritted his teeth and cocked his head.
The woman in the nightgown had followed us. And she had been joined by the ghost of a bloody butcher who wielded a very large, very sharp looking cleaver.
“It’s interesting,” Ray said, once again maneuvering himself between me and the other ghosts. “I think they’re perking up.”
“That’s good, right? Maybe they’re becoming less zombielike.” Although the ghosts’ attention felt less social and more like I was being stalked in an alley. “Maybe this is our chance to ask them about Jorie.”
“You read my mind,” Ray murmured. I felt the chill as he drew closer. “But give it a minute. Let’s see what’s going on first.”
“Right.” I usually liked to talk first and worry about consequences later, but that didn’t always work out so well.
“Let’s keep moving.” Ray led me across the parking lot, skirting away from the bell tower. “See if they follow us.”
We stopped by a large magnolia on the left side of the church past the front steps. “Ray, when you grew up in this parish, do you remember any tragedies or anything bad happening on the property?”
“Well, let me think.” He ran a hand over his bald head. “There was the time Naomi Jenkins took charge of buying the communion wine and Pastor Bob accidentally served the congregation prune juice instead of grape juice.”
“Ray,” I prodded. His mind would have to go that way.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “I can’t think of anything big and tragic. This has always been a pretty simple parish.”
I skimmed my hair back from my face, thinking. I mean, this was Sugarland. If this property had a shocking or tragic history, it would have been known all around town. Wouldn’t it?
Ray shifted slightly and I saw a figure behind him. The gravedigger stood at the top of the church steps, watching us.
“Um,” I began.
Ray glanced over his shoulder. “Honey,” he said, turning back to me, “I think we have a bigger question to answer. These ghosts weren’t interested in anything before, and now they’re interested in you.”
“That’s the one who chased me down from the bell tower,” I said, although he didn’t appear aggressive at the moment.
“I do see him up in the tower a lot,” Ray said, nodding at him. “That could be his spot.” The bloody butcher and the nightgown lady began gliding across the parking lot toward us. “I’m not sure why they’re so curious,” he added. “Maybe they see me talking to you and realize you can see us. Your talent is unusual.”
It was Frankie’s power, not mine. But, yes, I could understand where it might draw a crowd.
“It’s not just that they’re noticing you. They’re getting more active.” Ray glanced past me, to a man in a tuxedo carrying a broken champagne glass.
“Hi,” I said, giving tuxedo man a little wave.
The man tilted his head toward me as if asking whether I could see him. Then he raised the glass.
“Maybe don’t do that,” Ray said, raising a hand to ward off the ghost.
“Oh, I’ll be fine,” I assured him. “I’m good with people.”
“It’s not that,” Ray said, stiffening. “Have you noticed that most of the spirits here…their lives seem to have ended badly.”
“That doesn’t mean they were bad people,” I insisted. I’d met plenty of ghosts who’d endured terrible deaths. Although not so many at once.
“Sure,” Ray said absently, distracted by a dead preacher drifting down the road toward us. “How is word spreading?”
“I was hoping you’d know.” I hadn’t seen any of them talk.
“I’m not a ghost expert,” Ray said. “I’m just dead.”
Now he sounded like Frankie.
“I have an important question for you,” I pressed, shifting a little closer to him, damn the chill. “On the day she died, Jorie tried to give me a wonderful photo of her and my grandmother on your big day. It was gorgeous.” And it was gone. “Jorie had it with her when…”
I couldn’t say it.
Ray drew a hand down his face as if that could blunt the pain. “I think I know where it ended up,” he said gently. “I’ll show you.”
Chapter Twenty
Ray walked me down the side of the church. Scraggly rosebushes haphazardly climbed the walls, and those branches that hadn’t the strength to cling swooned lazily. A flapper stood in our path. She wore a wire garrote like a necklace, the wooden ends dangling against her throat. Her killer had strangled her from the front. They’d watched her die.
Her bow-shaped mouth opened and closed as her unfocused eyes flitted over us, like a rifle sighting a target.
“Let’s try something,” Ray said under his breath, leading me straight for her. “A test. Don’t look at me. Don’t talk to me. Let’s see if she notices you.”
“Right,” I said on an exhale.
I tried my best to walk casually. I hummed a little tune as we passed close enough to touch her.
I don’t see anything.
Maybe if I thought it hard enough, it would be true.
The flapper turned her head to watch us pass, wheezing as if she couldn’t quite draw a breath she didn’t need to take.
I said a quick little prayer for her and wished I could have done more.
Usually, I went out of my way to interact with the ghosts I met while investigating. I liked to offer comfort where I could and gather any help or insights they were willing to offer.
It was my favorite part of the job.
This felt unnatural. I couldn’t help but wonder if I was being overly cautious to avoid them, just because one had a knife, two had attacked me, and quite a few of them were creeping me out.
They were people, after all. Or, they had been. I liked to think I was more open minded.
I looked over my shoulder at the flapper. We locked eyes.
Oops.
Hers widened for a split second, then narrowed as she zoned in on me.
“I think I just answered our question,” I murmured. She began to glide toward us.
“Yeah, you did,” Ray said, picking up the pace. “I know you want to talk to them, and I do, too. But let me show you what I know about Jorie’s photo before we get all chatty. You mind hoofing it?”
“Gladly,” I said, breaking into an easy run as he led me to the back of the church.
“Maybe they’ll lose interest if we’re not right in front of them,” Ray said, hurrying me past a small patio and down a short brick path.
The path opened onto a modest memorial garden, merely a circle of camellias with a pair of stone benches and a birdbath in the middle.
The bath stood dry, its bowl charred. A stick lay a few feet beyond, the end of it burnt.
Ray stopped and crouched near a grouping of spindly trunks enmeshed in dried leaves. “Here,” he murmured, and I saw the charred corner of a vintage photograph caught among the leaves.
“Oh no.” I squatted next to him. “It might not be the one Jorie gave me,” I added, with hope disguised as logic.
I turned the remnant over with a stick, determined to preserve any potential evidence for Ellis, and my heart sank when I saw the back. A small piece of masking tape remained, with the “ity” of my name on it, written in Jorie’s hand.
I clos
ed my eyes. My photo was well and truly gone.
It seemed the person who’d pushed Jorie had wanted the wedding picture, or at least didn’t want anyone else to have it. And I had no idea why. Perhaps it had something to do with the entire package she’d given me.
But what would make somebody want to kill over a rose, a picture, and a letter?
Ellis would have told me if the police had found anything significant in the letter. I mean, I’d asked him directly, and he’d said it was only a chatty piece of correspondence. I’d ask him again in light of the burned photograph.
“Thanks for the help, Ray,” I said, straightening. “I wouldn’t have found this without you.”
“Thank you for looking closer at Jorie’s death,” he said. “It means a lot that you care.”
I opened my mouth to tell him how much everyone cared, but then I saw something that made me lose my train of thought.
The flapper ghost stood directly behind him. A tiny rivulet of blood trickled from the corner of her mouth.
“Hi,” I said to her, going for a peppiness I didn’t feel. I tried not to let my gaze travel down to the garrote at her throat.
“I’ve seen you around,” Ray chimed in. “My name is Ray Davis.”
She stared at him.
“My wife, Jorie, and I grew up going to the Three Angels,” he said heartily.
I felt the cold behind me and turned to see the minister from the road.
“Well, hello,” I said, glad to see he wasn’t even a bit bloody. “I’m Verity. Who might you be?”
Wordlessly, he reached for me.
I made a quick sidestep. “No touching,” I warned, spotting the bloody butcher trailing across the grass straight for me.
This was turning into a crowd.
The preacher made another grab for me, and I sidestepped toward the butcher. “Let’s all relax. There’s no need to get pushy.”
The butcher raised his knife and drew closer.
Okay, now I was getting a little nervous.
“Why don’t you put down your cleaver and we can talk,” I suggested.
“Verity,” Ray warned. He gripped the preacher by the coat, holding him off as the bloody butcher closed in on me, arms extended, cleaver raised.
“Can I at least get your name?” I asked the butcher. With that vacant look and those bloodshot eyes, I wasn’t sure what he wanted. “What’s your favorite cut of meat?”
“I think it’s time to get you to your car,” Ray said. “Now,” he added as the woman in the bloody nightgown surged straight through the butcher, toward me.
“Yeah, I think I’m leaving,” I said, opting to go sideways, between two camellia trees, their lower branches scratching at my back and tearing at my hair as I fought my way through.
It was better than the touch of a ghost or three.
Or another encounter with a stabby one.
“You can’t go the way we came,” Ray’s voice sounded in my ear. “There are more of them that way.”
I stumbled out from the trees and started booking it down the other side of the church, toward the parking lot.
“They’re gathering in the parking lot,” Ray’s voice warned.
Holy smokes. I nearly tripped myself skidding to a stop.
“You can still make it to your car if you hurry,” he urged.
Easy for him to say.
“I’ll hold them off,” he pledged.
“How?” With ghost lizards and other pranks? I turned the corner. On the other side stood the gravedigger. He raised a hand to reach for me.
He’d have to catch me first.
I hightailed it for the parking lot, struggling to keep my footing on the uneven ground on this side of the church. Still, I ran full-out, trusting Ray, hoping there weren’t as many ghosts waiting for me as I feared.
I made it to the front of the church and realized it was worse.
At least a dozen ghosts milled in the parking lot. Either the gathering was a huge coincidence or word had spread. One by one, they all looked up and saw me.
“Frankie!” Now would be a great time for him to take back my power.
“Frankie!” I didn’t see him anywhere.
I made a dash for the car. The ghosts might be dead and creepy, but I could run like the dickens.
A child with hollow cheeks and a wicked grin dropped his shoeshine box and closed a hand around my arm. “You,” he rasped. I felt the shocking chill of his grip down to my bones. I yanked my arm away from him.
Keep running!
I ran full out to my car, flung the door open, and slid into the driver’s seat like it was home plate.
The bloody butcher sat in my back seat.
Sweet baby Jesus. “Really?” I demanded as the bloody nightgown woman walked straight through my hood, toward me.
“I’ve got you,” Ray said, materializing in my passenger seat. “Move.”
Fingers shaking, I dug in my bag, found my keys.
“Go, go, go!” Ray hollered as ghosts began gathering in the road in front of us, blocking my only exit.
The butcher grabbed the back of my seat with a beefy hand. The other held the bloody chopping knife.
“Ray!” I hollered. If he wanted to protect me, now was the time.
“I got it,” Ray said, huffing as he scrambled onto his knees to take on the butcher.
He grappled with the ghost. I shoved the car into drive, looking for another way out, but it was all ghosts in just about every direction.
“Hold on!” I spotted a hole in the thickening ghost mob and plowed straight through it. I felt the chill of the butcher trying to climb up next to me, or maybe it was Ray fighting with him as I gunned the engine like Mario Andretti. The speedometer read forty, fifty, sixty mph. Pedal to the metal, I fled the property and whatever demented souls haunted the old churchyard.
“Good girl!” Ray said, one of his hands pressed against the butcher’s face, the other holding back a beefy hand clutching a hatchet as we passed the cemetery gates.
To my astonishment and sheer relief, Ray evaporated along with the butcher the second I crossed the property line.
I sped away, putting distance between me and the mess at the cemetery. “What was that?” I was chilled and sweating at the same time, my heart fluttering like a hummingbird.
The ghosts back there didn’t answer when I spoke to them. They just wanted to paw at me, and half of them came with deadly weapons. It was ten kinds of awful, and it didn’t make sense.
And oh, my word—I glanced to the seat next to me, then craned my neck to the empty back seat. What happened to Frankie? He couldn’t go anywhere without his urn. He should have been pulled off the property the second I left.
Unless he lay dead—again—somewhere back there.
“Frankie?” I scanned the car, not willing to slow down or take my eyes off the road for more than a split second. “Where are you, Frank?”
A long moment later—too long—Frankie materialized next to me in the passenger seat, holding his throat with both hands, gasping for breath. “Don’t call me Frank.”
We had bigger problems. “What happened?”
“The shoeshine kid tried to kill me!” he heaved.
“Davey?”
“He strangled me with my stolen laces. He’s out of his mind!”
“I think I saw him back there. He grabbed me.” It didn’t make sense. “Did Davey say anything before he attacked you? Like, did you even get to talk to him?”
“Yeah,” Frankie said, glaring at me. “He asked about you.”
Oh my.
“I told him how I lent you my power, and he went nutso,” Frankie said, both hands braced around his neck as if he feared someone might start strangling him again. “Like that kid doesn’t break the rules, too.”
“What exactly did you say?” I pressed. I mean, there’d been plenty of times I’d wanted to strangle Frankie.
“Nothing!” He insisted. “It took forever to get him talking, and
when I did, he went for my windpipe.”
It was a good thing Frankie didn’t need to breathe. Although I didn’t think he’d appreciate the reminder.
“I was afraid you’d gotten killed again,” I said, flying past fences and cows and ponds.
“I’m hard to kill,” he said, fingers shaking as he loosened his tie.
I still worried about him. “Can you take your power back?”
He ripped it away so fast I swerved and got a head rush. “Thanks,” I said, ignoring the spots dancing in my vision.
“I’m never setting foot in that cemetery again,” Frankie vowed.
We’d worry about that later.
He was still out of breath as he settled back in his seat. “It seems you at least learned how to use the gas pedal. Good work.”
“Only because I’m fleeing.” Stars. He’d missed the whole thing. “They saw me back there. The ghosts. They saw me talking to Ray and they went all Night of the Living Dead on my rear.”
His mouth dropped open. “Are you insulting the dead? Right in front of me?”
“No.” I blew out a breath. My heart hadn’t stopped racing. “I’m just trying to figure it out. I mean, Davey was nice to you last time.”
“He stole my laces.”
“This time, he tried to kill you.” I gripped the steering wheel. “Is it because of me?”
“What makes you so special?” Frankie demanded.
“You told him about giving me your power, and he tried to kill you.” It was simple deduction. “Now the kind of power transfer you do with me—is it forbidden?”
“Probably,” Frankie snarked. “But why would a shoeshine boy care?”
Why indeed? “And why would they go after me? The ghosts have no reason to fear or dislike me. I’ve barely talked to any of them.” Not that getting to know me would make them homicidal or anything. I was a nice person.
“I told you. I said it when you first wanted to go to that fundraiser. Nothing good happens at that church. We’re never going back, and I mean it.”
I didn’t see how we could avoid it. I’d promised Ray I’d learn the truth about Jorie’s death. We couldn’t ignore this for the year or more it took until Jorie returned to give us the scoop herself. Even then, she might not have seen who pushed her. In the meantime, the trail would go cold and the evidence would be gone.