Haunted

by Randy Wayne White

  It was an oversized photo—not a drawing—of a man who was as hairy as a werewolf. He had a flat simian face and wore a restraining collar as if he were a Rottweiler. Snarling, too, canines bared, and a metallic glint in his eyes—compliments of Photoshop and a promoter’s imagination.

  The poster struck me as repugnant. Then I remembered that Tyrone, a real person who lived alone in a trailer, had probably posed for the photo. That made me feel even worse. Because of an affliction, the man had no other way to make a living, yet tonight teenagers had mocked him, had added obscene graffiti, then toilet paper streamers—more Halloween decorations to set the mood. A lewd drawing, too: a snake with fangs and a smile protruded from Tyrone’s mouth like an extended tongue.

  I wondered if the girl they’d left behind had also found the image disturbing. She wasn’t in the music room—I even looked under the piano. Her crying had stopped and started again. Now it seemed to float down the hall from the other side of the house.

  Strange. Usually my ears are as sharp as my eyesight and it’s exceptional, if Loretta’s doctor is to be believed. Was I hallucinating? No . . . my mind was struggling with the smoke but okay. Her crying was real. Somewhere in this house a frightened girl was hiding or . . . or she was being held against her will.

  That gave me a jolt. The possibility was real, not paranoia. And the most likely suspect was Theo.

  I stopped, opened the camera bag. The pistol was right there, if needed, but not ready. I shucked a round into the chamber, used the de-cocker as a safety precaution, then returned the weapon to my bag, the bag over my left shoulder.

  Exiting into the hall, I called the girl’s name a few times and swept the area with the flashlight. Her weeping was continuous but impossible to pinpoint. An empty house echoes. But in the Cadence house, with its tin roof and domed cupola, Krissie’s sobs followed the rafters like a conduit and vibrated off the walls. Finding her was like searching for speakers in a theater. I paused at every room and closet. I also kept an eye on the spiral staircase.

  Finally I narrowed it down to the cupola because its door was ajar. The door was a half-sized access that opened into a room that was circular and barely big enough to fit four people. The previous evening, Birdy and I had explored it. Inside, wooden rungs scaled the wall to where a school bell had once hung. A peaked roof and grates protected the interior from rain but not wind, which spiraled downward into the house. As I approached, a steady breeze streamed through the doorway, cool on my face. The air was cleaner here. It made sense that a girl who was hallucinating might take refuge in a spot where she could breathe.

  Yes . . . the girl was inside. Her weeping ceased when the flashlight pierced the entrance. I switched off the light and said, “Krissie, no one is going to hurt you. Can I come in?”

  “No! Who are you?”

  She was panicky. I feared she’d climb the cupola’s ladder and try to escape by crawling onto the roof, so I took my time. “My name’s Hannah. I don’t know about you, but this smoke is making me sick. Can we go outside to talk?”

  “Stay away. Where did Gail and Frieda go? They promised not to leave me.”

  Girls—I don’t care the age—are not easily fooled, so I told her the truth. “You’d be smart to never trust that pair again. They ran off.” Quietly, I moved toward the door.

  “Ran where? I don’t believe you. The other party?”

  “The river. Or someplace close. Is that where they parked their car?”

  “They wouldn’t do that.”

  “You heard what that girl called you, Krissie. We both heard the word she used.”

  The girl sobbed when I said that. “Gail promised I’d have fun. They never invited me to their parties before. That’s all I wanted—to be with them and have fun. Why would they be so mean?”

  “Because that’s the way some girls are,” I said and couldn’t but help sharing her hurt. Without seeing Krissie, I knew what she would look like: gawky or chubby and too plain-faced to be anything but the easy target of jokes and mindless cruelty.

  And I was right. Before I ducked through the door, I flicked on the flashlight and took a look. She was a scrawny little thing with mousy hair and earrings she had probably spent an hour fussing with in front of a mirror. Wearing her best clothes, too, pleated skirt and a blouse that was lavender, not lipstick red—and too flat-chested to have been the woman in the photo.

  I switched off the light and entered, saying, “No one’s going to hurt you now,” then knelt beside the girl. “Tell me what happened. Or . . . it’s probably better if we go outside first. This smoke will only make you sicker if we stay.” I reached to touch her shoulder but withdrew my hand when she lurched away.

  “Don’t touch me. I can only close my eyes if I’m alone. And that’s what I want—just me, alone.” The girl’s muddled reasoning, as much as her hysteria, gave me a chill. Alcohol—the smell wasn’t strong, but she been drinking, too.

  “I think we should get you home. Do you have a cell phone? How about we call your parents.”

  That was the wrong thing to say. She shoved me and scrambled to her feet. “Don’t you dare tell my mom. Where did Gail and Frieda go? Gail wouldn’t leave me. You’re lying about that.” She braced herself against the wall and began to slide away as if balanced on a ledge.

  It was darker in here. I was a looming gray shadow to the girl. She was a shadowy stick figure. Soon she would feel the ladder rungs against her back and might climb to the roof. So I retreated to the door and ducked outside, hoping she would calm down. Gave it a few seconds, then said, “Kris, I’ll do whatever you want me to do. I can stand here while we talk. Or I’ll sit outside on the porch and wait until you feel better. But I can’t leave you, sweetie. Not until I know you’re safe.”

  There was silence, then a shuddering sob. “You mean it?”

  “Whatever you tell me to do, yes.”

  “My mom can’t know. I think something bad happened inside my head. The things . . . what I see inside my head . . . they keep coming back. Snakes . . . Gail wouldn’t stop talking about snakes. Scorpions, too. And another party—she said we’d have so much fun.”

  I didn’t want the girl to focus on snakes and scorpions. “There’s nothing wrong with your mind, sweetie. It’s the smoke, some kind of drug they tricked you with. Once we get outside, you’ll feel better. Krissie? I promise you’ll be okay if you trust me.”

  I put the camera bag on the floor and continued to talk to her. It took another minute of soothing and cajoling, but the girl finally crawled out and joined me in the hall. Stood there, undecided, looking up, as if trying to determine if I was real or imaginary, a safe companion or a threat. She hadn’t actually seen me. It was darker inside the cupola, but dark out here, too. So I attempted to put her at ease, saying, “My hair’s probably a mess, so don’t be shocked when I turn on this flashlight.”

  I pointed the light at the floor . . . then toward the ceiling to illuminate the hall. I was half a foot taller than Krissie. She was reluctant to make eye contact but finally did. She looked up, a girl whose face was as plain as my own. Puffy lips, eyes glassy, she stared at me for a moment with interest. Then her expression changed and she began to back toward the stairs, frightened by what she saw.

  It wasn’t easy to force a smile but I did. “What’s wrong? My earrings aren’t nearly as nice as yours. Is that it?”

  Krissie appeared to be having trouble breathing. “You’re her,” she whispered. “You tricked me.”

  I wondered if the light had sparked another hallucination, but also feared she would fall down the stairs if I switched the light off. She had yet to look behind her and the steps were only a few yards away. “Sweetie, you’re going to be just fine once we get outside.” I held my hand out as an invitation to stop.

  “No—Gail told me the stories. You’re her, that woman.” Then she hollered, “I saw you! Stay
away from me. You’re dead . . . You’re a witch.”

  Did she mean Lucia? I wondered. Krissie was only a few steps from the stairwell. If she didn’t fall, she would soon run—her wild eyes guaranteed it. So I shined the light on the landing and made sure she saw the steps by asking, “What woman? Is that her on the stairs?”

  Thank god, she turned. But it cost me the little bit of trust I had earned. “You lied to me again. You . . . You’re evil.” Then Krissie reached for the missing banister and nearly fell anyway, but recovered, while I stood frozen holding the light so she could see.

  “You don’t have to run,” I said gently. “Just get downstairs in one piece, that’s all I ask.”

  The girl realized she’d scared me and hesitated. “If you’re not her, why is your shirt soaked with blood?”

  Blood? I looked down at my copper red blouse and finally understood. She was definitely hallucinating. Krissie had convinced herself I was the ghost of Irene Cadence. Terrifying for her, but a possible opening if I used it right. “The woman you saw wasn’t me,” I said. “I have a picture of her, though. If you wait for me outside, I’ll let you see it. Truth is, I’d like your opinion.” I reached for the camera bag. “Do you remember meeting a woman named Lucia?”

  “I don’t believe you. Your hair . . . you’ve got black hair, too. And you’re beautiful just like Gail said.”

  I had to smile at that. “When I was your age—this is true, I swear—I thought I was the ugliest, clumsiest person on earth. Maybe you can relate.” I left the bag where it was and stood. “How about we go outside? I’ve got a cooler in the car with drinks. Just you and me, we’ll talk about how awful high school can be.”

  Krissie jerked away when I offered her my hand. “You’re lying. Stop pretending you’re nice.”

  “It’s true I have to pretend sometimes. But, Kris—I’m not the one who ran off and left you.” Once again, I extended my hand.

  The girl couldn’t let herself believe the truth. She shook her head, threw her scrawny shoulders back. “Go to hell!” she hollered, “I’m going to the party and find Gail,” then ran down the stairs and out the door.

  I followed, but first had to retrieve the camera bag. By the time I got outside, she was almost to the trees, where there were car lights and the rumble of motorcycles, too. To me, though, it looked like Krissie was angling toward the old railroad bridge when she disappeared.

  That’s the second thing I told the 911 dispatcher after I had explained the bare basics.

  “She might be headed to the RV park,” I said, “looking for her so-called friends.”

  The third thing I said to the 911 dispatcher was, “I told you there was a girl in trouble. You didn’t believe me. So I expect you to believe this: we need to find that girl before she hurts herself. And send extra deputies because drugs are being sold from this house. A dangerous drug. And I know who’s doing it.”

  That wasn’t exactly true—Theo, Lucia, and/or Carmelo could be responsible—but I wanted all the uniformed cops I could summon before I went after Krissie. And that’s what I intended to do instead of standing on the porch, talking on a phone, in the wind and beneath stars and a rising full moon. Which was the fourth thing I told the dispatcher.

  “Have you been drinking?” she asked when I was done. From the tone of her voice, I could tell I had pushed too hard or was rambling. And she was right. My anger had caused me to say too much and with too little respect.

  “Sorry, I got carried away. But you can’t go inside that house without inhaling smoke.”

  “Then you are under the influence,” the dispatcher said. “Smoking what? And how do you know it’s dangerous?”

  “I’m not sure of the name. It’s from a type of mimosa tree. The dealer burns the seeds in the fireplace but grinds them into a powder first. Maybe to get kids started, but probably because he has a sick sense of humor. Or could be . . .” A more devious reason had popped into my mind and I had to sort it out.

  “Could be what?”

  “I hope I’m wrong but it might be his way of taking advantage of women. Young girls would be easy targets.”

  “The man you buy drugs from,” she said, “can you spell his name for me? I should warn you, everything you say is being recorded.”

  I was already impatient but that made me mad. “Buy it? Lady, I don’t even smoke,” then caught myself before saying anything stronger. Instead, I kept it simple. “I’m going to look for Krissie. Have the deputies call when they get here.”

  I hung up, fuming, furious because the dispatcher had ordered me to stay put and wait for an officer to arrive, which had given the girl a long head start. Now the question was, should I drive to the campground or save ten minutes by walking?

  Because I was anxious and angry, the answer seemed obvious, but I couldn’t decide. Either way, the camera gear needed to be locked in the trunk, so I hurried to my SUV while I argued back and forth. I hid the bag under a towel but removed the pistol first. It was too big for my purse—a clutch wallet, actually, by Kate Spade—so I zipped the gun into the little backpack I had carried on Carmelo’s boat. The few supplies it contained weren’t heavy. The gun added only a pound.

  When I shouldered the bag, I remembered that I was supposed to meet Belton between eight and eight-thirty. It was nearly eight now, which was another reason to take the shortcut across the railroad bridge. With the flashlight, if I jogged most of the way I could be at the campground entrance in a few minutes. Belton, I felt sure, would be willing to help search for Krissie. Then he could drive me back to my car when I was ready.

  I wasn’t a coward and I was armed—taking the bridge made perfect sense.

  Don’t do it. Deep, deep in my mind, the persistent voice of reason demanded to be heard. You’re not thinking straight. You’ve been drugged.

  But I had already wasted a lot of time. Krissie was in no shape to be roaming alone. I had to find her before her friends—or an even crueler man—hurt her more. Take the shortcut, urged the reckless woman inside me.

  That’s what I decided to do.

  My SUV is equipped with a keypad on the driver’s-side door and only I know the five-digit code. It’s a nice feature that eliminates the possibility of locking the keys inside and reduces the risk of theft. So I touched the keypad to engage the locks.

  Don’t do it. That voice again. This time, it added a mental image: me standing alone at the entrance to the serpentarium where Theo lived. I would have to pass that driveway to get to the campground.

  Suddenly, I was convinced.

  Using the keypad, I got into my SUV and did a fast U-turn on the gravel road.

  • • •

  THE REASON it was faster to walk to the RV park was because I had to drive four miles north to a bridge that crossed the Telegraph River, then east for a mile to a macadam road, where I turned right. That road doubled back southwest, four miles again, and wasn’t wide enough to dodge all the potholes. Until then, I hadn’t realized how remote the spot was.

  Four miles? The repetition sparked a detail that didn’t surface immediately. Gradually, it came back: Birdy had said the weather girl’s car, and the car of another missing person, had been found in a woods four miles from the Cadence property. Not the same place but similar.

  Four miles on either road, if driving north, would intersect with a spot near the highway bridge. No doubt police had considered the significance, yet that didn’t relieve my anxiety. This was lonely country. Occasionally, an eighteen-wheeler roared past, slapped me with a wall of wind, then left me alone. The moon was up, orange and smoky, its size distorted by an October horizon. It showed cypress trees on both sides of the road and vacant land that had to be swamp or open range for cattle. Mist pooled in my headlights, the tang of brushfires bespoke a land that might yield to hard work but would never be subdued.

  Men like Brit and Joey Egret—an
d Capt. Ben Summerlin, too—would do fine out here, sleeping rough and traveling by foot or on horseback. The same was true of my distant aunts, Sarah and Hannah Smith. But this was no place for a modern girl. Especially one like Krissie who was lost and alone, her brain hallucinating.

  My thoughts shifted to the three missing people, then to the Florida State cheerleader who’d become a TV weather girl. Why had she stopped her car in a place like this? Whatever indignities she had suffered, however feverish her fear, the truth had not vanished with her. Someone knew. Someone who had traveled this same narrow road. A man, most likely. A man who was a beast—or whose inner beast lived just beneath the skin and had a taste for the unspeakable.

  Both hands on the wheel, I kept the speedometer at seventy-five, hoping a sheriff’s deputy would stop me for speeding. That’s what I was thinking about, what I would say to the officer, when my phone rang. The noise so startled me, I jumped and crossed the center line, then overcorrected and swerved toward a ditch. I got the car under control, slowed to sixty, then engaged cruise control, before I finally answered.

  Too late. Belton Matás, according to caller ID, had hung up. But then the phone pinged with his voice message:

  “Hannah, dear, I assume you’re on your way. But, the thing is—and there’s no reason to worry, so don’t—but I think a mutual acquaintance of ours knows. I’m talking about what you found today. And he’s acting very damn strange. So I’m in my RV now and I’ll meet you—”

  A sustained metallic screech, possibly static, ended the message. Or maybe that was all Belton had to say. But why guess? I touched Call Back. Six rings . . . Seven . . . Then a message said the subscriber was not set up for voice mail.

  I tried again. No answer.

  Ahead, the road forked. To the left was a tiny concrete church, Calvary Baptist, lights off, parking lot empty. On the right, a sign read Slew RV Park 1 Mile. I slowed, followed the arrow to the right, then pulled over into the weeds. I rechecked the door locks and listened to the message again.