Forever Finley

by Holly Schindler

  He squatted, dipped his fingers into the water, sniffed. It didn’t smell funny—neither burnt nor full of odd chemicals. The water looked normal—untroubled and clear. But the area felt—charged, somehow. Electric. Something had happened. And Michael knew he had done it.

  George had to have seen him. Surely he knew that Michael’d been responsible for the strange brief discoloration of the water.

  Should he tell Mary? After all, the cave was on her property. Or should he keep silent and see if anything else happened?

  A familiar sensation struck him: the sensation of having screwed up royally. It sat heavily inside his chest, beside the memory of his two weeks in Nashville.

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  The night of the fundraising concert, Michael looked for George again. His eyes scanned the entirety of the crowd filling Mary’s property, their faces reminding Michael of a field of wildflowers rustling gently in the evening breeze.

  He drifted away from Ashley, happily chatting once again about her own wedding dress, how she couldn’t even begin to imagine what Kelly would design this time around.

  And he saw her—Natalie. With her dark hair piled on top of her head and a small corsage of autumn mums pinned to her shoulder.

  “Has your friend George shown up yet?” he shouted into her ear over the constant chatter of the rest of the Finley attendees.

  Her eyes swelled. “What did you just say to me?”

  Had he upset her? Was she offended? Shocked? Why? Was George a sore spot for her? A piece of the past she’d wanted to leave behind? Or—worse yet—was he a piece of the present that she didn’t want her fiancé to know about? What had he just stepped into?

  He stammered. “I—I—well—”

  “You’ve seen George.”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “Out by Mary’s cave.”

  Natalie shook her head in disbelief. “Not at the cemetery?”

  “No—he said he was close to the caretaker, though. And he told me he was a vet. Why?”

  “He told you all of that?”

  “Well—yes. He said his name was George Hargrove, and—”

  “He said that!” Natalie grabbed Michael’s arm.

  “Why—what’re—are you—”

  “I met George shortly after I moved here.”

  “He told me that, too.”

  Natalie gasped. “He told you.”

  “Yes.”

  “Michael, I’ve rarely seen George outside of the cemetery. And every time I’ve seen him, he’s always seemed to disappear so strangely—into the fog, for instance.”

  “He did that here, too—at the river.”

  “There’s a grave. In the National Cemetery. For a George Hargrove. A World War I soldier.”

  Michael took a step back. “That’s crazy.”

  “The old caretaker told me that there’s a legend about George. Not as well known as the stories of Amos and Finley. But he said George is here to protect people. If you see George, it could very well mean there’s some kind of danger. He’s here to warn you.”

  “Danger?” Michael glanced out at the crowd behind Mary’s place. Everyone in Finley was there. If something were to happen, something bad, it could mean the worst kind of disaster. He remembered the yellow glow of the river. Had he contributed to the danger? Should he tell Gary? Should he insist everyone turn around, scatter, go home?

  “Did he tell you something?” Natalie asked, glancing out at the crowd. She was worried suddenly, too.

  “He said—things—shouldn’t stay underground.”

  “Underground?” she repeated, her face crinkled into an expression that said George’s words made as much sense to her as they made to Michael.

  “What do we do?” he asked Natalie.

  “Just—keep your eyes open,” she said. “I will, too.”

  Michael agreed. He marched through the crowd, away from the fringes, back toward the makeshift stage.

  Gary was fiddling with the volume on an amp. He’d brought a drummer with him. “Just to see if it works,” he shouted into Michael’s ear. A luxury that Cuppa never would have accommodated, the space too small for the thunder of a drum.

  Michael slipped his guitar strap over his neck, his eyes sweeping the crowd. Cody was here with Steven and his parents. Frowning at Michael. He seemed to be asking Michael, with that frown, if everything was okay.

  It wasn’t. Something was about to happen. But Michael had no idea what.

  Gary warbled something into his vintage mic. The drummer smacked his sticks together, counting off the beat.

  And then they were playing. Launching into the song Gary had written.

  Behind the crowd, off to the side, a jagged line began to glow. No—not just a line. The Finley River was glowing. The entirety of it. Just like it had when he’d dropped the Tascam. This was it, he was certain—that strange glow looked absolutely dangerous. It was going to blow—or catch fire—something terrible was going to happen.

  He wanted to scream, but a whisper in his ear—or maybe it was just the voice in Michael’s own head—demanded, “Don’t.”

  His heart began to thunder far louder than the drums behind his shoulder.

  “Keep going,” the whisper insisted. And he did. As scared as he was, as much as he wanted to run, he stood firm. “Good,” the whisper told him. “Good. You’re doing it this time.” Each second that he stood his ground, he was rewarded. He felt himself getting stronger.

  The song reached the bridge.

  “Don’t stop this time, don’t back away,” the whisper continued. Somehow, the words flooded Michael with the memory of every lonely, disappointing second of those two weeks in Nashville.

  And then strangely, suddenly, the feeling drifted off. Like a tiny little leaf being carried downstream by a swift current.

  Michael didn’t want to play Gary’s bridge. He wanted to play his own. He took a step forward; he hit the strings with uncharacteristic force. Gary backed away, not sure what was happening.

  The roles shifted; Michael was no longer the accompaniment for Gary. It was the other way around. And the very moment that Michael struck that first minor-sounding, climax-reaching chord in his own bridge, the glow emanating from the river intensified a thousand times.

  Mary seemed to read Michael’s face. She turned toward the river. Glowing wildly.

  As each note hit the air, it floated toward the river, creating what almost appeared to be a virtual musical bridge.

  “Keep going, keep going,” the whisper insisted.

  Michael continued on, drawing the crowd in, their appreciative murmurs adding to the excitement.

  Behind them, the notes congealed, darkening the bridge, coloring it in, it seemed. Yes—it was true. Michael’s notes had drawn a bridge from one side of the river to the other. The kind of bridge that looked every bit as sturdy as the steel-reinforced single-lane structure that everyone in town had used to get out here, to Mary’s property.

  After too brief a time, the song rolled to a conclusion, leaving Michael out of breath and weak.

  The very second his music began to wane, the river stopped glowing. And the bridge disappeared.

  No, no, no, no, no, he thought. How could that bridge disappear so easily? He began to bolt from the makeshift stage. But his friends and neighbors were grabbing for him. They were cheering, clawing. They remembered; they’d always remembered. It was just that Michael had put this part of himself away; he hadn’t been truthful about how important music still was to him. And so no one had ever mentioned it; everyone had simply followed his lead, that was all. Michael had returned from Nashville a slightly different person. And everyone in Finley had accepted him, too. If he was not music Michael, but barista Michael, who were they to judge? They loved barista Michael just the same. But the way they were cheering for him now—you’re back you’re back, they all seemed to be saying. Is that how Gary had felt, too? The first time he’d returned to his music?

&
nbsp; “Where’d that come from?” Gary shouted. “You’ve never played that way before.”

  In the center of the crowd, Cody raised his fists triumphantly. He knew how much courage it took sometimes to admit what you wanted—what it took to put an intimate, private part of you on the outside, to show the world who you really were.

  Authentic. The word rang out again in Michael’s head. And still, Gary was shouting at him and slapping him on the back.

  He had to get to the river. “Break,” he shouted in Gary’s ear. “Need a break. You guys—keep going.”

  Gary nodded, and before Michael could quite get his own bearings, the opening chord of a new song thundered into his ears.

  But the bridge didn’t reappear.

  Michael was halfway to the water’s edge when he was met by George, who jumped in front of him, blocking his path. He was exuberant—smiling and laughing and jumping a little, like a happy child. “There’s never been a bridge before. I tried to cross the other day—but I couldn’t. The river—wouldn’t let me. But look at me! Look where I am now! On the other side. Don’t you see? If I can cross the river now, I can help.”

  “Help—who? Natalie?”

  “Amos and Finely!” His whisper was identical to the whisper Michael had been hearing onstage. “They’ve been on two sides of the river. But now—this will allow them to get together. Don’t you see?”

  Michael turned again toward the river.

  “Your music did it. It was beautiful! Never heard anything so powerful…” George was saying. “I told you, I told you—it was a dangerous thing to keep that music hidden. Buried underground. In a cave. Don’t you see? Now, if only—if only there were words. If only your voice were part—”

  Michael wanted to scream at Natalie, who was still in the crowd, her face turned toward Gary. She needed to turn around. See him. See George. So Michael would know for sure. Is this the same George, Natalie? Turn and look, turn and look, turn and look…

  His attention was stolen, suddenly, by the familiar voice of a little girl. Crying out with happiness. “Winston! Winston!” she shouted. “I found you! Where have you been all this time?” She ran in front of the stage, calling to her parents.

  Gary’s song faltered.

  “What do you know,” Gary’s amplified voice was saying. “Miracles happen.”

  Michael felt a tingle. He looked at Mary, standing on the fringes, smiling right at him. Line between the living and the dead, she’d told him. She wasn’t senile at all.

  Michael had before always thought of music as his. Even when he was out there, busking as a teen: his music. But that was wrong. Something like music—that didn’t belong to one person. It belonged to everyone. It was to be shared.

  Isn’t that what everyone in Finley did with their talents—no matter how small? Weren’t they all sharing them with each other? Wasn’t that part of why they’d found happiness?

  He opened his mouth to speak to George. He wanted to know more.

  But George was gone.

  The legend of a town that drew its inhabitants home was true. Nashville hadn’t pushed him out; Finley had called him home. He was supposed to be in Finley. But not for himself.

  There was no way he was going to yank it, his music. Pull it out of his life, discard it. He was going to keep playing. He had to. Look at what his music had just done. George had said the bridge would bring Amos and Finley together—could it really be true? After all this time? More than a century? They would finally be reunited? And could Michael’s music be at least part of the reason their hearts would be joined again?

  Love was alive. His love of music was still breathing. And by sending it out into the world—he had created a bridge. The kind of bridge that could bring a happily ever after to the town’s oldest legend.

  He was called home to help Amos, not the other way around.

  Michael would keep playing.

  And he knew—miracles would follow.

  October Omen

  Ghosts are merely superstitions. Fictional creatures that only exist on movie screens or the pages of novels…or are they?

  Kelly Marx, Finley’s premiere wedding planner and dress designer, is on a mission to gain access to a Civil War-era shawl that will provide the finishing touch to her latest original gown. But Mary, the elderly owner of the shawl, isn’t the only force to come between Kelly and her goal. When the shawl goes missing, Kelly finds herself in the midst of disturbing events—faced with omens of danger. After encountering two mysterious strangers, where will Kelly’s skeptical heart lead her?

  No word existed for a person who believed in ghosts.

  They weren’t “paranormalists” or “spiritologists” or even simply “believers” (which was far too vague to refer specifically to ghosts). The only real label Kelly could think of that could possibly be attached to a person in regard to their outlook on the subject was “skeptic.” But that referred to a person who didn’t believe. Or at least doubted.

  There was probably good reason for that.

  Not that it was doing anything to stop Miriam Holcomb, holding court as usual from her stool at the front counter at the Corner Diner. Today’s tale started as they all did, with a booming, “You’ll never believe this one.”

  On cue, customers throughout the restaurant settled deeper into their seats. It was bound to be a long tale. The kind of tale that was going to make them all late getting back to work. Miriam’s stories always did.

  “I saw a man. A stranger. On my property. Late at night. The witching hour,” Miriam said, pushing her hair away from her face. She’d begun to dye it lately—a light ash blond. Ridding herself of her white hair had seemed to take at least twenty years off of her sixty-one. It might have helped in the beauty department, but it certainly wasn’t going to win her any sympathy, Kelly caught herself thinking. The blond locks made Miriam look robust and hardy and definitely able to hold her own.

  “After your blueberries again, Miriam?” asked one of the men at the counter. He chuckled at her as he waited for his pork tenderloin sandwich, the special of the day.

  “Maybe he was just trying to return your overalls,” another chimed in. “The ones that got stolen last summer—right off the line, wasn’t it?”

  They laughed together then, both of them thick-skinned and wrinkled from years spent in their fields. The mesh backs of their John Deere and Orscheln Farm & Home Store hats had been faded by a decade’s worth of sun, covered in the dirt of as many growing seasons.

  “I knew I shouldn’t have killed that snake,” Miriam moaned, shaking her head. “I knew something bad was bound to happen afterward. It’s a sign, you know. You don’t kill snakes. You just don’t. Like opening some weird Pandora’s box.”

  Again, snickers.

  “It’s just that it snuck up on me,” Miriam said, in a tone that reminded Kelly of a sixteen-year-old trying to explain away the giant dent in the fender of the family car. “Cottonmouth. While I was fishing out there on that little creek on my property. You know the one—the arm of the Finley River. There I was, in the middle of a nice peaceful afternoon, and it came right out of the water, mouth open to threaten me—same way a person can threaten you just by showing you their weapon. White mouth means poisonous. Everybody knows that. And I had my bird dog with me. Chester. Knew, too, that he’d take out after that snake—and that would be the end of Chester. So before I could think differently, I grabbed my knife. Same I use to fillet my catches. Threw it hard as I could, and hit that snake just as it slithered onto the riverbank. Cut it right in half.”

  “You can eat cottonmouths, you know,” the John Deere cap said. “Same as you can eat rattlesnake.”

  “No,” Miriam said. “I buried it.”

  “You give it last rites, too?”

  The two men elbowed each other and chortled.

  “I regretted it as soon as it happened.”

  Miriam’s voice softened a bit with her admission of remorse, Kelly noticed from her window bo
oth. Most people who dined alone at the Corner Diner ate at the counter. But a booth gave her a place to spread her sketches out while she ate.

  “I mean—I was relieved, of course. Glad my Chester didn’t get hurt. Anytime you escape something bad, relief just floods you,” Miriam insisted. “But I’m telling you, it’s dangerous to kill a snake. My grandfather always said it was a sign of more bad things to come. So I tried to at least show it respect once it was dead. Still, though—I knew the damage had already been done.”

  Kelly caught the familiar eye of the man at the nearby table. His name was Joe, she remembered. A landscaper she’d hired a few times to prep for outdoor weddings. Miriam’s tale gained speed; halfway through his plate of roast beef, Joe gripped his fork tighter and rolled his eyes. He offered Kelly a slight grin as he chewed, the kind that said, Can you believe her?

  “I just went around everywhere waiting for it. For the something bad. For the universe to get even with me,” Miriam went on, pausing to take a sip of the Diet Coke she always drank at noon. “It’s an awful thing, waiting for disaster to strike. Worse, most times, than the actual disaster. Well. Except in this case.”

  By now, Joe had stopped rolling his eyes. Curious, he laid his fork across his plate. His roast beef sat cooling as he swiveled in his chair to look toward the front of the diner.

  “And when I heard those strange noises just before dawn, the hairs stood up all over my body. Sounded like—well, like a disturbance. I mean, you know how your place is supposed to sound at four in the morning. You just do—crickets followed by Chester’s toenails while he walks the floor, looking for another place to curl up and sleep until six. The hum of the window fan in the summer. The gas log crackling in the winter. The wind in the fall. The rain in the spring…

  “But there was a weird all-at-once burst of noise. Like the birds and my horses and all the night critters—the possums and the skunks and the wandering cats—got startled at the same time. I was wide awake then, I’ll tell you.