One Foot in the Grave

by C. C. Hunter

  “There’s this movie,” Dad continues, not hearing his client. “I’ll bet you saw it. I can’t remember what it was called, I think it’s more of comedy, but it has heart, too. It’s the one where a man looked back at his life and saw the good he’d done.”

  “I don’t want to talk about damn movies!” the spirit says, his tone half-pleading, half-angry. “You have to hear me. It’s life or death. I need you to hear me!”

  I step back before I’m noticed. When I look back down the hallway, I see Abby standing there. She turns and walks into another room.

  I go after her. The door’s closed. Quietly, I turn the knob, hoping it’s not locked. It slips open. Nothing but darkness greets me. I blink and my eyes adjust enough to see two rows of pews. I ease in and carefully close the door behind me. It still clicks when it shuts. That clunk-clack resonates in the darkness. It’s a dead sound. And it sends chills spidering up my back. Or is Abby’s cold presence doing that?

  Where is she?

  I stand there frozen for several seconds, then I move in.

  “Abby?” I say her name then sit down in a pew.

  “I’m sorry.” The words seem to float from the looming shadows. I hear her pain in those two words. Then I see her standing a few feet from me.

  “We need to talk.” My words slip out in a whisper.

  She drops down beside me. She’s back in her nice dress and makeup. But she sits so close, her coldness causes my skin to burn. If I move, though, I’m afraid she’ll leave. So I push the icy sting from my mind.

  “I need for you to tell—”

  “No,” she says. “I shouldn’t have told you. I put you in danger. He could have . . . He could’ve hurt you like he hurt me.”

  “But he didn’t. I’m fine. And I found something out. He’s not who he says he is. He’s already been arrested for . . . bad things. With this information, I think I can stop him. Get him in jail so he can’t hurt anyone else. But I need you to tell me exactly what happened.”

  “No. It’s too ugly.” She stands up.

  Right before my eyes her face changes and becomes a swollen mess. Blood stains her dress.

  I try not to react. “Abby, I don’t mean the details about what he did to you. I need to know how he got you into the shed. How you got away. I’m going to write an anonymous letter as if it happened to me, but I got away, and I’m going to send it to a reporter and to the police. Help me stop him,” I say, my voice a mere whisper.

  The sound of the door opening shatters the room’s solemnity.

  “Riley?” My father’s voice rings out in panic.

  “I’m here.” I look at Abby. “Come by the house tonight,” I whisper to her.

  Light explodes in the room. “What were you thinking. You scared me to death. Ms. Duarte arrived and said your car was here, but we couldn’t find you.”

  I stand up and face him. “Sorry. I got here and you were busy with a client, so I came in here to wait.”

  “You should have told me.”

  “Sorry,” I say again. “I was hoping we could do dinner out. That’s why I stopped by.” I hate lying to him.

  “Why didn’t you turn the lights on?” he asks, walking up beside me.

  “It was kind of peaceful,” I say.

  He rakes a hand through his hair and I see the worry wrinkling his forehead. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  I stand up, remembering how kind he was with the convict. And I can’t help but wonder if he can sense that they hear him. Why else would he talk to them?

  Chapter Twenty

  Abby doesn’t show until almost eleven. She’s right. What she has to tell me is ugly, but I sit there trying not to cry for fear she’ll stop. Even still, I know she’s leaving out some parts. I know she’s trying to protect me. I’m going to stop this guy if it’s the last thing I do.

  “Please do not put yourself in any more danger,” she says.

  “I won’t.” When she starts to fade I ask, “By any chance, have you seen Hayden? The boy, the other spirit, I told you about?”

  “No. I’m sorry. I’ve never been able to see him. But I remember what you asked me to do. To see if I could find your mother. When I cross over, I promise you I’ll do it.”

  “Thank you.” They all try, and they all seem to fail.

  When Abby leaves, my eyes well up with tears. Tears for her. Tears for me. Tears for my mom and for Hayden.

  I want to roll over and forget. To wipe the ugly smear of Abby’s story from my mind. My soul.

  I can’t. It’s like gum on the bottom of my shoe. No matter how hard I try to scrape it off, it’s still there. Sticky, ugly goo.

  I fall back on the bed, feel my pulse race and tell myself to sleep. I can write the letter tomorrow. But each time I close my eyes, I see Evil Allen. My skin crawls and I keep envisioning what Abby endured. What I might have endured, if Hayden hadn’t saved me.

  Hayden who’s done so much to help me, but I haven’t even managed to help him pass over. There’s a part of me that wonders if the reason I haven’t been successful is because I don’t want him to leave.

  God, that’s so wrong.

  Then it hits me. Maybe he did cross over, and I just don’t know it.

  After five more minutes staring at the ceiling, I get up, walk to my desk, and turn on my laptop. If I’m not going to sleep, I might as well write the letter. I think I recall the name of the reporter Hayden said I should send it to. To be sure, I search the newspaper’s website. Then I go to the local police website and find the name of a homicide detective.

  Heart hurting, hands on the keyboard, I start writing.

  I write for two hours straight, trying to get it perfect. The letter’s a lie, a huge one, but I pray the police and the reporter will find the truth behind my words. The ugly truth of what really happened to Abby. The truth that a monster is on the loose.

  When I finish, I print it out and read through it again.

  Dear Detective Holloway,

  It happened over a month ago. At first, I vowed to never tell anyone. Then I saw the news a couple of weeks ago about Abby Howard. I wasn’t sure if telling my story would make a difference, but in the end, I knew I had to try.

  You see, something very bad happened to me at Lake Canyon State Park. A man, a custodian, wearing a nametag that read Bill, happened upon me while I was hiking. He was very friendly. Even flirted a little. After my recent argument with my boyfriend, I sort of found it nice. I told him I was looking for arrowheads. He said he wanted to show me his collection.

  I followed him up Trail A. Almost all the way to the top. He opened a shed and waved me in. I don’t know why, maybe it was the way he looked at me, but suddenly I realized I shouldn’t trust him.

  I made up an excuse about realizing the time and having to go. He didn’t look happy. As a matter of fact, he looked very angry. I turned to leave, but he caught me by my arm. I struggled and screamed but it was right at the park’s closing time and no one heard me. Then he hit me. Hard on the jaw. With his fist.

  I almost passed out. The next thing I knew he was pulling me into the shed. I found a rock on the ground and hit him with it. He fell back long enough for me to scramble up and run. At first, he chased me. But some voices rang out from somewhere and he stopped.

  I was going to report him, but I was so scared, I just wanted to go home. I blamed myself for flirting back with him. I blamed myself for trusting him.

  I had almost put it out of my mind until I saw the news story about Abby Howard. I couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps he was involved with her death. So I got on the park’s website and did a little investigation. I found his name. But when I Googled him, I found an obituary of a man with his face and the same name. William Fredrick Griffin died six years ago. I was confused, but then I read it carefully and discovered William had a brother. A man named Allen Marcus Griffin.

  When I did a search on him, I discovered he had recently gotten out of jail for rape. I think it’s likely
that Allen took over his brother’s identity. I’m really hoping you will look into this and stop this man, this monster, from hurting anyone else.

  I signed it, Sincerely, A Concerned Citizen.

  Then I printed one out for the reporter.

  I read it again. So much of the story includes things Abby shared with me, like the rock she used to hit him. Her own story. Her own nightmare. Unfortunately, though, Abby didn’t get away. He caught her and pulled her back into that shed. He raped her. It was only when he reached for the same rock to hit her that she managed to get away. But she’d been so shaken and badly beaten by him that she slipped off the edge of the trail, just like I imagined her doing when I was running from the same man.

  It doesn’t matter that he hadn’t pushed her off that ledge. He’d planned to kill her in that shed. She knew that. I can still hear and feel the pain in her words. Feel the fear that she felt while that man hurt her.

  After I read the letter, I rip it up into tiny little pieces. Holding my hand over the trashcan, I watch as the shreds of paper cascade downward. After closing my eyes a minute, I print two more. Then I print labels for the letters. Finding gloves in my desk drawer, I stick the labels to the two envelopes, then fold the letters and stuff them inside. Remembering one of Dad’s shows about how DNA can be found in licked envelopes, I find a washcloth, dampen it, and seal them shut.

  A feeling of accomplishment fills my chest, but the ugliness of it all hangs like a piece of rotten meat on a mental hook. It isn’t until I have them sealed that I realize a problem. I can’t just stick them into my mailbox. The police could probably follow them right back to me. I need to find a place across town to mail them. No, I need to find a place out of town to mail them.

  All of the sudden, I’m exhausted. My eyes are heavy. My heart’s heavier. A quick glance at the clock tells me it’s three a.m. Still wearing gloves, I hide the letters in a drawer. Tomorrow I’ll figure this out.

  But as soon as my head hits the pillow, my mind starts spinning again. I try counting sheep, but that doesn’t work. I open my eyes and stare at the side of the bed that I so often caught Hayden sleeping on. Reaching for the pillow, I pull it to my chest and bury my nose in the soft cotton. The slightest scent of Hayden lingers there. I haven’t a clue how that’s possible, but I hug the pillow and swallow a lump of loneliness down my throat.

  • • •

  The next day, with less than one hour of sleep, I drag myself to auto tech and put on a coveralls. It’s a big day. We’re taking out a transmission. It’s something I’ve really wanted to learn, considering I had to have my transmission overhauled six months after we got the car running, and it cost an arm and a leg. Six months of my babysitting money, to be exact.

  After a good five-minute cautionary tutorial on how people have died working on cars, Mr. Ash finally allows us to get to work. Jacob and I grab a creeper, a rolling board to lie on while working under a car, and position ourselves under the jacked-up 1964 Falcon. The only old car in the shop.

  I can’t be sure how we were lucky enough to get it, but I’m guessing luck had nothing to do with it. I’m sure Jacob pleaded with Mr. Ash to let us have the older car. We are practically shoulder to shoulder. The smell of the engine and old oil fills the little breathing room we have. If I were claustrophobic, I’d be freaking right now.

  Jacob glances over at me. “You look tired.”

  “You’re never supposed to tell a girl that,” I spit out.

  He chuckles. “Something tells me you’re the kind of girl who doesn’t appreciate lies.”

  If only he knew how often I’m forced to lie. My mind quickly goes to the lies I’ve told and written lately. Of course, all of them were to protect my secret or to help the spirits. But somehow, I think lying, even for a good cause, stains a person’s soul. I worry that one day mine will turn jet black.

  Jacob offers to do the first part of the job. Since lack of sleep is making my arms feel like they’re made of lead, I agree, but I’m intent on watching and learning.

  The next thing I know, I hear Jacob whispering in my ear. “Wake up, sleepyhead.”

  I open my eyes. “Oh, sorry.” I blink a couple of times, and then glance at him. “How long have I . . .”

  “Been asleep?” He finishes for me, smiling. “About forty minutes. Mr. Ash just gave us the five-minute warning.”

  “Sorry,” I say.

  “You should be,” he says, teasingly. “I’ve been so busy watching you sleep that I barely got anything done.”

  “You should have woken me.”

  “I don’t know. As pretty as you are, I figure you need your beauty sleep. Bad night?”

  “Something like that.” I start to roll out but he catches me.

  “There’s this dinner of sorts tonight. A fundraiser. To raise money to pay for Carter’s hospital bill. He was . . . is a friend of mine.”

  I start to speak up and he presses a gentle finger over my lips.

  “It’s not a date. There’s several of us going. I thought maybe you and Kelsey would like to join us.”

  I remember the promise.

  “Come on, it’s Friday. Live a little,” he says.

  It’s Friday. The thought scurries around my head and herds two thoughts from the corners of my mind. First, I don’t have to conjure up a lie. I can’t go. Even if I wanted to. I have a completely honest excuse. Second, tonight would be the perfect time to mail the letter.

  “I can’t. I’m . . . Dad and Kelsey and I are going to the car show in Dayton. Sorry,” I say.

  “Damn.” Disappointment echoes in his voice. “Then the least you can do is agree to come up here tomorrow and help me work on this transmission.”

  “Tomorrow’s Saturday.”

  “I guess you were asleep when Mr. Ash said he was going to be here tomorrow working on his car and if any of us want to come up and get a head start, we could.”

  “Yup, I was asleep,” I say.

  “So you’ll come tomorrow?” He sounds hopeful. I feel hopeless.

  Again I recall my promise. “Okay.”

  “Okay,” he says and his brown eyes light up. “Great. Yeah. I think Ash said he’d be here around eleven. Is that good for you?”

  I so want to back out. I so don’t know if I’m ready for this. I so wish Jacob was Hayden. “Yeah,” I force myself to say. “Eleven’s good.”

  • • •

  I finish my classwork early in English and ask to use the restroom. I’ve got to make a plan. Hiding out in a stall, I do a search for public mailboxes in Dayton, Texas. It gives me two addresses. A post office and a blue box outside of a UPS store.

  Multitasking, I pee and do a quick search for the car show location at the same time. Luckily, the UPS office is just down the street from car show. I still don’t know how I’m going to get the letters mailed while I have Kelsey with me, but I’m determined to try. Determined to get justice for Abby. And equally determined to get Evil Allen behind bars. I get a chill just thinking about him.

  I flush, zip, and am almost ready to walk out of the stall, when I hear someone coming in. Correction. More than one. They’re talking. I stick my phone in my back pocket, ready to leave when I hear, “Are you going to the fundraiser tonight?”

  I know the voice. And in an oh-shit-I-know-that-voice way. It’s Candace. The girl who gave me the black eye.

  “I’m thinking about it,” the second person answers and I know that voice too. It’s Jami, Jacob’s ex.

  I debate walking out now. But my gut says it would end badly. Am I being a coward by hiding out, or am I being smart to avoid trouble? Decision made, I quietly sit down on the toilet. It feels so odd, sitting on the throne with my pants up.

  “Do you know if Jacob is going?” Candace asks.

  “I do now,” Jami says. “I asked Dex to go with me.”

  “Seriously?” Candace asks. “Are you just trying to make Jacob jealous?”

  “Like I could actually be interested in that dor
k Dex,” Jami answers, sounding like a bitch on wheels. “I just wanted to piss off Jacob, but it didn’t work. Dex said he was already going with Jacob and a group of people.”

  “Who’s he going with?” Candace’s voice is too shrill, almost excited.

  “I don’t know, but if that little mortician’s twit is with him, I’m gonna flip.”

  I’m little? I’m a twit? I curl my hands into fists.

  “I bet if you’d undone your second shirt button Dex would’ve said yes. You’ve got great boobs.”

  I roll my eyes. I just can’t see Kelsey and me complimenting each other’s boobs.

  “I don’t know.” Jami’s voice echoes around the bathroom. “I think he’s too loyal to Jacob.”

  “Do you really want Jacob back?” Candace asks.

  “No, but I want to hurt him. Bad.”

  “Well, I know a way we can do that,” Candace says.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  “How?” Jami’s voice sounds a few octaves higher, as if the thought of hurting Jacob makes her excited and happy.

  “Remember the weed we didn’t smoke last weekend?”

  “Yeah,” Jami says.

  “Let’s plant it in his locker. Then send an anonymous tip that he has drugs. They always bring in the drug sniffing dogs every two weeks. We can even make sure to plant it when we know they are going to show up.”

  Jami giggles and I swear it sounds like a witch. “You might be on to something.”

  My mouth drops open. I can’t freaking believe they’d do that.

  I hear them walk into the stalls. I wait just a second and then quietly hurry out, praying they didn’t hear me—or worse yet, see me—through the stall cracks.

  • • •

  “What are you going to do?” Kelsey asks me when I tell her before history gets started. The teacher’s not here yet, so there’s still a lot of noise in the classroom.

  “I’m going to tell him. I have to.”