Unquiet Ghosts

by Glenn Meade

  In despair, I pulled up a kitchen chair, sat at the table, and put my head in my arms, the sweater and hoodie beside me. I wanted to weep aloud, to scream my frustration. When I finally looked up, my eyes drifted past the window and over to the cottage. I frowned.

  Was I seeing things?

  I was used to seeing those three pieces of two-by-four nailed to the door and the frame. But one of the wood pieces was hanging loose, as if someone had tried to remove it to open the door.

  My .38 revolver was still in my glove compartment. But my father’s shotgun was in the kitchen. I got up, opened the pantry door, and removed the shotgun. It was an old Remington pump-action, the varnish worn off the wooden stock. My father usually kept the shotgun loaded. I slid back the pump slide a little and saw no round in the chamber, but the safety was on.

  Gripping the shotgun, I moved out onto the back patio.

  I looked over at the cottage. The piece of two-by-four was definitely hanging loose.

  I racked the shotgun, putting a cartridge in the chamber, then moved slowly down the patio steps and started to walk toward the cottage.

  After a dozen steps, I saw something on the cottage’s patio.

  A rusted, discarded claw hammer. I recognized it from my dad’s barn workshop. He often used the hammer when doing fixes. I felt my heart beat faster. I stepped up warily onto the cottage porch. There was no mistake—the piece of two-by-four was hanging off but still held in place by a couple of nails I had hammered into the wood. The other wood pieces looked as if someone had tried to loosen them, or else they had already been removed and then hammered back on again.

  Who did it?

  My father would never have done such a thing. It looked as if someone had tried to break in.

  I took another step on the porch. The wood creaked.

  I listened but heard nothing from inside the cottage.

  I put a hand on the doorknob and turned. It was unlocked. I had left the door locked. When I looked closer, I saw that the wood near the lock, on the door and the frame, was splintered in places. Someone had broken in. There were few break-ins in the homes around here. Everyone had a gun in Tennessee. It didn’t stop burglaries, but it probably lessened them, because the burglars risked ending up in a pine box for their trouble.

  “Is there anybody in there?” I called out.

  Silence.

  “If anyone’s in there, come out now. I’ve got a gun.”

  More silence.

  Still holding the shotgun in one hand, I picked up the claw hammer with the other and wedged it between the last two wood pieces. The nails creaked and bent as I yanked one end of each two-by-four off the doorframe. Now I could open the door.

  My heart was racing with apprehension, and a morbid fear seemed to slap me in the face.

  More than six years. It had been more than six years since I had last stepped inside the cottage. The last time, I was so overwhelmed I didn’t feel right for weeks afterward.

  The window nearest the door caught my eye. A cobweb veil was stretched in the space between the fly screen and the glass and was mottled with black spots, the remains of dead flies. Every now and then, Dad had his housekeeper, Mrs. Bridges, vacuum and dust the cottage. He’d remove the two-by-fours to let her in and nail them back afterward. But I figured it had probably been a year or more since her last visit.

  I forced myself to grip the doorknob. I twisted and pushed.

  The door yawned inward with a rusty creak.

  And that’s when I got my first shock.

  39

  * * *

  The cottage had been ransacked.

  Drawers lay open, and personal belongings were all over the floor. The cushions from the sand-colored corduroy couch that Jack and I sat on to watch movies were tossed about the room. The couch material was ripped in places, like a gutted animal, clumps of the white polyester stuffing scattered about like sheared wool.

  I let out a breath and covered my mouth with one hand, the shotgun loose in the other. Our old TV was still there, covered in a veil of dust. The same with the DVD player underneath. Whoever broke in, it didn’t look as if they came to steal electronics.

  I knew from Courtney—one of her nuggets of observation about crime-scene work—that sometimes criminals defecate on their victims’ property during a burglary. It’s not necessarily a crude snub to their victims but out of visceral fear as they carried out the theft. Usually, it’s kids or young adults who have to drop their pants. But I saw nothing to suggest that this break-in had been carried out by delinquent teens. They would have taken the DVD player and the TV, as out-of-date as the electronics were. Someone would always give them a few bucks for an old TV, even if just to use it as a screen for computer games.

  Nothing like that happened the first time the cottage was broken into, either, about three months after Jack vanished. Dad was in the house when he heard a noise and went out with a flashlight and his .45 to investigate. He found the cottage door’s lock forced and broken. He called the cops.

  Now a thought struck me. What if it was Jack who broke in back then?

  Nothing appeared to be stolen, the would-be burglar probably frightened off by Dad’s vigilance. After that, we kept the cottage locked, Dad had a driveway alarm installed, and we got a dog. The dog strayed within a year and never returned, and the driveway alarm often went without its batteries being replaced.

  Moving among the mess now, I spotted some of Amy’s and Sean’s old toys—a boxed Lego helicopter set, a yellow Teletubbies doll that Amy loved, the stuffing burst out.

  It was hard to breathe, as if a knife were stuck in my chest. Any break-in is a violation. To break into a place as precious as this shrine . . . Yes, it was a shrine, I admitted it. As borderline crazy as that might sound, I kept a shrine. They can either be a comfort to lessen your grief or a way to perpetuate it, depending on the state and strength of your mind. For me, knowing the cottage was there, as it had been when I lived there with my family, brought me a bittersweet kind of comfort. There was still something tangible from my past, something I could touch, feel, see, smell, if and whenever I wished. Even if it often frightened me to do so.

  Right now I felt overwhelmed. I felt that something treasured had been desecrated. This was my property, and it had been broken into.

  I picked up a cushion and coughed. The dust was getting to me. I put the cushion down. A corner cabinet was overturned near the bottom of the stairs. Papers lay strewn about, some on the stairs, along with some old CDs. The trail seemed to lead up to the landing.

  Gripping the shotgun, I began to climb the stairs.

  40

  * * *

  I reached the landing and looked around.

  The cottage ceiling wasn’t high. It had a half-mansard roof, French-looking, and in the three bedrooms the roof crawl spaces were turned into storage cupboards, accessed by doors.

  All the cupboard doors were open, and you could see the old clothes and junk items crammed inside the spaces, along with a couple of boxes containing Jack’s “bug-out” gear, everything we’d need in the event of a civil emergency. Jack was something of a hoarder. He used to buy emergency stuff at gun shows, including first-aid kits, survival items like water purifiers and emergency rations, maps, compasses, flashlights—he had stashed at least a dozen flashlights all over the house. He also used to buy amusing progun posters at those shows.

  One that he got a particular kick out of was stuck on the cupboard door. It showed a bunch of Native Americans on horseback, armed with rifles, pistols, and bandoliers full of cartridges. Underneath it said, “Hand over all your guns—we will take care of you. Signed: The Government.”

  Jack used to laugh at that one. “Trust no one but yourself, and always be prepared.” That had been his motto since his Army days. Another nugget he liked to repeat: “When disaster happens, and Walmart’s sh
elves are empty, we’re only one meal away from anarchy.”

  I wandered around all the bedrooms. Amy’s and Sean’s, hers pink and his blue, with a Spider-Man poster on one wall, where I had pinned it up for him. With every familiar object I saw, I felt a catch in my heart. A toy, Amy’s Barbie bedside lamp, Sean’s Batman sneakers.

  I began to feel overwhelmed. The same kind of feeling I had when I last entered the cottage.

  And I felt angry, violated. I slumped down on the dusty bed and felt like crying.

  My eyes were drawn to a clutch of discarded clothes just inside one of the crawl-space cupboards. It was a cupboard I remembered opening only once, to store some of Kyle’s stuff, an old CD player and TV, a game console, books, a bunch of clear plastic storage boxes full of clothes. Jack had cleared it out for me after Kyle moved to Serenity Ridge, because I couldn’t face that chore. Whoever ransacked the cottage had to be looking for something specific; no one went to this much trouble. I’d have to call the police and make a report.

  As I got up off the bed, I spotted Kyle’s old exercise bike poking out from among the cupboard’s junky darkness. And then I saw something stuck in the rafters, hidden out of view. I peered inside the crawl space. It looked like some kind of plastic food-storage box with a red lid. Wedged next to it was what appeared to be a thin black book, hidden between the rafters and the roof insulation.

  I reached in and yanked the box out of its recess. It had a couple of old rubber bands wrapped around it. When I tried to remove them, the fatigued rubber crumbled and broke. I opened the box. The skunky smell of weed wafted out. Inside was a glass marijuana pipe and a yellow plastic pill bottle with a white twist cap. I opened the cap. The aroma of marijuana was still there, and it drenched my nostrils. I saw a bunch of screwed-up plastic bags. Kyle’s old hash stash.

  I put down the box and its contents and focused on the black book.

  What was it doing in there?

  Did it belong to Kyle, or had Jack stashed it there? As I reached out to dislodge the black book, my cell phone rang. I jumped, my nerves frazzled. I didn’t even check the number as I hit the answer button.

  “Ms. Kelly?”

  I recognized Tanner’s voice. “Yes.”

  “Sorry to trouble you, ma’am, it’s Agent Tanner. I wonder if we could meet.”

  “When?”

  “This afternoon. I know it’s pretty soon after what you’ve just been through, but it’s important.”

  “Can you tell me why?”

  “I’d really rather not discuss this over the phone.”

  “Did . . . did you find . . . ?”

  “Remains? No, Ms. Kelly, not yet.”

  “What is it that’s so important?”

  “I’d prefer we talked face-to-face.”

  “If it’s so important, I want to know about it now.”

  “Ms. Kelly, there’s some lab work to be completed. I’m waiting for forensics to get back to me as we speak. And I’m waiting for some information I requested. I’d prefer not to discuss anything until it’s confirmed.”

  “Until what’s confirmed?”

  “Ma’am, please, if you could bear with me. May I call back later?”

  I felt a desperate urge to tell Tanner about the break-in. But what if it was Jack? What if they investigated and found his prints or something? Would Jack hold that against me and keep up his threat? I decided to hold off for now, but I felt confused and desperate.

  “I’ve waited eight years to know the truth. Eight years. After seeing the crash site and hearing Dexter say that my family may be alive, I can’t wait any longer, or else I think I’ll go crazy.”

  Tanner said nothing.

  “Can’t you understand that? Please, I beg you, tell me something.”

  A long silence. I heard Tanner sigh and then take a deep breath. “There have been a couple of developments at the site, Ms. Kelly. Like I said, I’m awaiting lab results.”

  “You’re waiting on lab results for all of the developments?”

  “No, not all of them.”

  “Then please tell me what you can.”

  Another long silence, as if Tanner was trying to decide something. “Maybe it’s important, maybe not.”

  “And?”

  “They managed to open the aluminum briefcase. Among . . . well, among some other stuff they found in there was a notebook. Some lines scribbled inside. But the handwriting is hard to decipher. I’d like you to take a look at it.”

  I felt a cold hand reach in again and grasp my heart. “Jack . . . Jack’s handwriting was almost impossible to read. We used to joke that he should have been a doctor.”

  “I could only make out one word, just a single word on the first line. Maybe it means something to you, maybe not.”

  I hung on, Tanner’s silence ominous down the line. My impatience was turning to anger. I wanted to scream, Tell me, for heaven’s sake! “What’s the word?”

  “Red.”

  * * *

  I stood there after I put the phone down.

  In total shock, Tanner’s answer ringing in my ears.

  Red.

  The same word my mother scrawled the day she killed herself. I felt mystified.

  I heard a noise and stiffened.

  A distinct noise like a footfall, a shoe or boot hitting wood. I spun around. It seemed to come from outside the cottage. Then I heard the wind chimes ringing on my father’s back porch.

  I peered out the window. I could see that the pipes of the chimes were moving, but I saw nothing.

  I saw no wind stirring the tree branches; there wasn’t a whisper of air that day.

  My heart quickened.

  Clutching the shotgun, I flicked off the safety and moved downstairs and out onto the cottage’s front porch. I looked toward the house. Still I saw nothing, but I heard the wind chimes dying away.

  A stray wind gust, or had a movement set them off?

  I crossed the lawn to my the rear porch of the main house and edged my way across the decking, the wood creaking under my feet.

  I had left the back door open. It was still open. I stepped back inside the kitchen.

  The second I did, a man in black, wearing a ski mask, lunged at me. His left hand grabbed the shotgun barrel and tore it from my grasp with a force so violent it felt as if my chest had been ruptured. His other hand stabbed at my throat, and I was stung by a jolt of pain like an electric shock.

  A split second later, my muscles went into violent spasm, and everything faded.

  41

  * * *

  I awoke with a killer headache. It made me feel as if an elephant were sitting on my head. I was tied to a kitchen chair.

  Pain spasmed in my throat, and it felt on fire, every muscle in my body raw. My mouth was taped up. I was breathing through my nose, and I couldn’t move. Silver duct tape bound my wrists tightly to the armrests. I heard heavy footsteps.

  I saw the man in black out in the hall, descending the stairs, still wearing his ski mask. In his right hand he held a black pistol. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs, peered out though a crack in the hall shutters, then turned toward me and strode back into the room.

  Bloodshot brown eyes stared at me from behind the mask. His left hand held the Taser—a stun gun—that he’d used to immobilize me. He didn’t speak but held up the Taser for me to see, a warning, before he laid it on the kitchen table. He placed the pistol next to it. Above his black pigskin gloves, I glimpsed angry red wrists, horribly scarred. He pulled up a chair and sat facing me.

  Fear made my body shake, and my mouth went dry. Was the intruder going to rape me? Kill me? Jack used to warn me about break-ins and to be careful when I was alone in the house. A few nearby homes were burgled over the years, including the cottage, and once an intruder shot a woman during a neighborhood home invasion.
It was why my father insisted I always keep a firearm handy. But my hands were bound, and there was no way could I free myself and use a gun, even if I could get my hands on one.

  The man in the ski mask said nothing, but I heard his breathing. It had a rasp like that of an asthma sufferer. He pulled a bandana away from his neck to reveal some kind of speaking valve inserted into his throat. It appeared to be attached to his neck with two lengths of slim white Velcroed material. “Can you understand me? Nod if you do.”

  The voice sounded a little husky, like Jack’s voice usually sounded, and it shocked me. I thought I saw knotted scar tissue staining the man’s neck when he pulled away the neck bandana. It was such a momentary glimpse that I could have been wrong. But if I was right, the scars and the speaking valve told me his voice box was damaged. Unless—and this was when a weird thought struck me—unless in some way the intruder was trying to disguise his voice?

  “I asked you a question. Answer it.”

  I nodded.

  “Don’t struggle, don’t attempt to scream or flee, because you won’t get far.”

  My fear ratcheted up. The electronic voice sounded tired. His bloodshot eyes made me wonder if he was drugged.

  “Keep still. Behave and don’t scream, and I’ll take off the tape. Do exactly as I tell you, and you won’t be harmed. We clear on that?”

  Too terrified to answer, I managed to nod.

  “Enjoy the free waxing, honey.” He leaned across, and his glove touched my face. He gripped the tape and tore it off quickly. The shearing pain in my upper lip made my eyes water.

  He laid the tape on the table, next to the pistol and the stun gun.

  “Please . . . there . . . there’s no money in the house, except what’s in my purse. About . . . about eighty dollars.” Words tumbled from my mouth, which was becoming weirdly numb.

  “Shut up.”

  “There’s . . . jewelry in the main bedroom.”

  “I said shut up and listen. This isn’t about that. It’s about your husband.”